The Lesser Evil: Hooligan's Holiday
by Lord Onisyr
Summary: One year after the events of 'The Lesser Evil,' Drizzt, Entreri, and Jarlaxle take a vacation: hunting for a mad cult leader for a sizable reward, only to deal with some not so friendly competition along the way. FINISHED.
1. Prologue: The Prince's Reign

**The Lesser Evil: Hooligan's Holiday**

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of R.A. Salvatore/Wizards of the Coast ©. I don't own them; I'm just examining all their possibilities.

**Author's Note:** In late February of 2005, I undertook a project that I had never thought I'd ever do: writing a fan fiction. The title of that piece was "The Lesser Evil." Three months, over a hundred reviews, several hundred page views, one art depiction, and even one fanfic adaptation later, "The Lesser Evil" was officially finished and left to history and I left one promise to my readers when it was done: there will be a sequel.

Ladies and gentlemen, I am making good on that promise now.

To fully understand the setting and themes of this story, I strongly recommend reading "The Lesser Evil" before reading this one. To those who haven't, I will give you a word of warning: the character of Drizzt Do'Urden is more than a little different here. If you are reading this fic expecting a heroic story about the famed, goodly dark elf hero and his fellow Companions of the Hall, you will be in for a surprise. While constructive criticism is greatly appreciated, please think for a second before saying that Drizzt seems out of character. If you feel this because of certain descriptions or other detail intricacies, I'm all ears. If you think he's out of character because of how he is generally portrayed, my response is this: that is the whole point.

"The Lesser Evil: Hooligan's Holiday" is rated R for graphic depictions of violence, strong sexual themes, and some, strong profanity. This story is an examination of the darker nature of Faerûn as well as fantasy in general. There are no role-models in this story and the terms "hero" and "villain" are interchangeable. Characterization is based more on angst and dark humor than any moral lessons and should be read as such.

**Prologue: The Prince's Reign**

"Five in all," Nazlain said with no small amount of enthusiasm.

The only response Asil Qir'Treslin had to this was a look of deep scolding at her fellow priestess of Eilistraee, who should not be talking of such grim matters with such glee.

Nazlain straightened her smile and nodded in apology to the High Priestess, her thin, white hair bobbing slightly over her fine shoulders.

"Our sentries managed to take the lives of five Vhaeraun worshippers," the High Priestess said in curious confirmation, running a frustrated hand over her white hair, her fine fingers gently playing with the series of longs braids were strewn down both sides of her hair and joined at the middle of her back.

"Auzcovyn, all of them," Nazlain replied in a more respectful tone.

Asil looked up at the high canopy of trees and over at the long, wooded field on which her people had hade their camp. No moon was visible, only the dull red haze of heavy cloud cover reflected in the light of many campfires strewn around the area. She took in a deep breath of fresh air with the hint of woodsmoke and imminent rain, feeling much lighter in such serene surroundings…with such pleasing news?

People died, she thought to herself in a poor attempt at self-scolding. Young men and women who could have been brought to the Lady of the Dance and redeemed of their evil were lost to The Demonweb Pits. Asil did not want to be happy for these deaths, though she could not ignore the glee deep in her soul. Maybe her former life as a priestess of Lolth had yet to completely leave her psyche, a thought that both scared her and gave her incredible drive. These drow did not want to be redeemed, she thought, they attacked innocents died by the sword by which they lived; it was only inevitable.

She knew she was also doing a great service to the goodly folk of Cormanthor; the surface elves who still called this land home, the rangers of every race who protected the wood down to every last branch, and her own people, the followers of Eilistraee who wanted to escape the hellish Underdark and the monstrous ways of Lolth. Vhaeraun's flock was no better than the Spider Queen they scorned. All of them were predators; drow who raided the neighboring villages and slaughtered anyone who amused them at the moment. They would rape the land, defile Elven High Magic surrounding the area, and unleash demons and every other thing unholy that they saw as pleasure or creed.

Having the threat of Jezz the Lame and his minions in House Jaelre attacking the people of the Dalelands was tragedy enough, but a greater threat had been targeting her people directly for the past several months. The normally reclusive and splintered Auzcovyn clan had united in common sympathies and a new leader whose mere name spelled fear to many: The Rogue Prince.

The Rogue Prince was a warrior dedicated to Vhaeraun and his battle prowess was astounding; as was his savagery and love of slaughter. Those who fell under his swords did not fall in one piece, and many of those were still alive when they had their limbs hacked from them. His aim in battle was shed as much blood and cause as much carnage as possible, scaring his enemies into submission. No one ever saw his face since he always wore a black leather half mask in combat and those close enough to view any distinct features were allies who would not tell tales or combatants whose doom was imminent. It was obvious that he was a young drow of excellent build; even some of Asil's own priestesses would dare to describe him as handsome. His long, white hair was thick and often ran wild, though he occasionally pulled it back in a ponytail or a few well-placed braids. Rumors circulated that he also had a long, deep scar on the right side of his face that only added to his ferocity and the mysterious, yet deadly aura that surrounded him.

The Rogue Prince's daunting reputation in the Cormanthor wasn't the only reason why many feared him. In the past few months, rumors slowly spread around the goodly people that The Rogue Prince had slain a revered champion of goodness in the Realms: Drizzt Do'Urden, the most famous drow to have forsaken the evils of his kin. A group of wood elves found the shattered remains of the scimitar known by the rangers as Twinkle, the blade of Drizzt. They also found a long trail of dried blood running down a tree nearby. A few months later, soldiers from Silverymoon arrived in Cormanthor and those who escaped the Prince's wrath would return home with grim news: his body was never found, though the fate of the Ranger of Icewind Dale was all but sealed.

Stories spread around the Dalelands that Drizzt Do'Urden was working with the rangers against the Vhaeraun worshippers when he met the Rogue Prince in battle. The Prince impaled him on a tree with his own scimitar and he slowly bled to death as the Prince and his minions looked on and laughed. Then his body was dismembered and pieces were given to other Auzcovyn troupes as a prize, while the Prince claimed his head, which he now keeps preserved in a box and would display to anyone who pleased or challenged him. All of these were merely rumors, yet they were effective in adding to the horrifying legend of the Rogue Prince.

Asil and her fellow followers of the Lady of the Dance had come under heavy attack, especially in recent days by the Prince and the rest of the Auzcovyn; several circles would be ambushed and the Vhaeraunites would kill a few, maim many, and disappear. It was obvious their aim was terror, most likely making the goodly drow of Cormanthor know that they were not wanted.

Asil, however, had united her sisters in fighting back. The three hundred-year-old high priestess was possessed of great prowess in the divine arts; Eilistraee had shown her favor. She would find effects of the invading drow, whether shed pieces of hair, clothing, even skin, and do spells to curse them into weakness. When the spell was complete and the divinations revealed success, she would send word to her warrior allies among the rangers and wood elves, who would take care of the problem. So far, fifty Auzcovyn had died and many more were injured, though the Prince was nowhere to be found among the dead. Yes, this was dark work, but it was Eilistraee's will being done, and done with great success.

"Well, done," she replied, looking back up at the young priestess' white hair that glowed despite the lack of moonlight. "All we have to do is claim the Rogue Prince and Cormanthor will raise a cheer in victory,"

"Which shall be soon," Nazlain replied. "It will only be a matter of time before we corner him in battle again. He cannot keep all of his skin in tact swinging those damned swords around. And this is all because of you: our High Priestess who won us the day."

"Me who was merely doing my service to The Lady," Asil said, nodding her head in another gesture of gentle scolding.

"Eilistraee be praised," Nazlain added.

Asil looked at her friend and smiled, embracing her warmly.

"Now tend to our injured," Asil said, slowly drawing back. "I need some moments of contemplation."

"Of course…" Nazlain began, though she was interrupted by a small commotion on the outskirts of the woods.

Both priestesses looked over and saw two male, Eilistraeen warriors crouched down and yelling back for a priestess. Asil ran over and saw the two men bringing another male drow to his feet. The drow's tunic was torn and dyed red by his own blood, his skin covered with many cuts and bruises, dried blood making his black skin a shade of purple. His white hair took a shade of brown and red with all the dirt and blood seeped into it, the mane tangled and embedded with leaves and twigs. He looked like he could barely walk and his voice was only a series of pained groans that seemed to well deep from his shaking body.

Asil leaned in and grabbed the young man's shoulders, looking directly into his face and seeing his skin a shade of gray. She knew he could be a Vhaeraun worshipper, or even a soldier from the Underdark still in Lolth's slavery. None of that mattered to Asil; he was an injured young drow who was in desperate need of her care.

"We found him stumbling into the village," Rizal, one of Asil's soldiers said. "He hasn't said a word and his legs gave out many times."

"Hello, brother," Asil said in the injured drow's ear, "you are in the company of Eilistraee and no harm can come to you now."

The drow merely groaned in response and slowly looked up at Asil's calming face, giving Asil full view of his badly swollen and cut lip and swollen eyelids that barely opened to reveal bright lavender eyes. Asil leaned in, savoring the beautiful, unusual shade. Only one drow in the Realms was known for having that eye color…

The High Priestess felt herself go numb as her vision then turned to his belt, which bore one lone scimitar on his left hip and an empty scabbard on his right.

"Drizzt," she whispered gently, making sure he was the only one who would hear the word.

The drow's attention had shifted to the ground at first, but his head snapped up upon hearing the name.

"Drizzt Do'Urden?" Asil whispered louder. "Is that your name?"

The drow managed a wide smile as tears welled in those beautiful eyes. He nodded fervently and managed to reach his arms over and embrace the priestess, bursting into tears. Asil embraced his trembling body and felt her own tears come down.

"All is well, Drizzt," she whispered in his ear. "You are safe now. No one can harm you."

"M-m-my lady," he managed to gasp out. "I am not worthy."

"No, you are most worthy, and honored in this camp," Asil said through a sob. "We will bind your wounds, bring you to health again."

Drizzt tightened his embrace and sobbed. Asil gave her own sobs: some good had triumphed in this horrible place after all.

She slowly led him to his feet, giving the honored ranger many encouraging and soothing words. Drizzt Do'Urden manage to find some strength in his weary legs and walked along with the High Priestess' aid, though his steps were still staggered and his body seemed wracked with many aches and wounds. People in the small village would turn and stare at this scene, many wearing smiles and looks of awe. To some he was a young martyr who had survived the worst of battle now lived to be rescued in the light. Others caught a glimpse of his irises or heard his name and knew the most famous goodly drow in the Realms was alive and well.

Asil led Drizzt to her tent, a large construction of white canvas that seemed to glow on the field. By the time she opened the flap, his legs failed him, but Asil continued giving him encouraging words, which brought one final burst of strength that took him in the tent and to a soft cot covered by a gray blanket, where he crashed down. He immediately crouched into a fetal position and gave a few soft whimpers as tears rolled down his blood coated face. The High Priestess took a small basin of chamomile water from a stand in the corner of the tent and went to her knees, taking a thick cloth, soaking it in the water, and carefully reaching towards his bruised face. He cringed for a second before fully relaxing and allowing Asil to bathe his face, taking off the caked-on blood and revealing his beautiful, ebony skin.

"There are many, many people who are very worried about you, Drizzt," she said softly.

Drizzt sobbed harder.

"I am sure your Companions will be most happy to learn that you are safe," she continued.

"They can't know," Drizzt gasped, his voice barely a whisper. "I…I have dishonored them in too many ways. My lady, I have a confession. I have allowed my anger to control me. I have killed so many in blind rage, innocents and others. Many have died, and many should not have, all because I lost control."

Asil listened thoughtfully, her heart wrenched by his utter torment. He had committed terrible deeds, but redemption and forgiveness was the way of Eilistraee. She then remembered something else she heard about the young ranger.

"You gave into your anger after Catti-brie died?" Asil said, though she knew he could freeze if pressed further. "Your wife was everything to you, wasn't she?"

Drizzt curled up even more and gave a series of wails.

"All I could see was her death," he said, his voice a bit stronger. "I tried to kill the pain in all the most horrible ways. I let myself go, fell in with the lowest, most evil creatures. Then I found myself again, though I knew Mielikki had abandoned me. I…I wanted nothing more than to cleanse my soul and I knew I could do it here."

"You thought you could cleanse your soul by attacking the Vhaeraun worshippers?"

Drizzt nodded and shivered more.

"You went against the Rogue Prince?"

Drizzt's face twisted into a look of both sadness and rage.

"I wanted to do one final thing against my kin, but I never knew…oh gods I am such a fool!"

He started wailing again and Asil embraced his trembling body.

"They took me and threw me in a cavern, tortured me endlessly for months. I wanted to die down there, but then I managed to escape…but what is there for me now?"

"There is who you are," Asil said, a few tears making their way down her angled cheeks. "You are Drizzt Do'Urden, and no matter what, you have been the truest champion of goodness, bringing courage to so many drow who would embrace the light. And you are alive, given a second chance to appreciate life. Let yourself be free of the darkness in your soul…and come into the light again where trees and flowers grow."

Drizzt gave one clearing sigh that turned into a laugh. Asil laughed with him, more tears of joy streaming down her cheeks as she savored this moment with a goodly drow whose work was not finished. If Mielikki had abandoned him, Eilistraee would greet him with open arms; a thought that truly warmed her soul.

Asil savored this warm moment before feeling the searing burn of a thin blade being driven through her lower back. She gasped, her legs going completely numb as she felt her life essence running in a torrent down her back as the life was fading from her. She managed to pull back enough to regard Drizzt Do'Urden's wide smirk, his red eyes clearing quickly and fixed on her as he pulled her closer and the stiletto deeper. Her fading vision did catch one lingering image of his face, especially the long, deep scar that ran along the right side of his jaw. He leaned in and kissed her on the forehead, his hand running up her neck and fingers tangling in her hair. A second later, his arm wrapped away from the embrace and drew the scimitar. One lingering look of sad denial was on Asil Qir'Treslin's face as her head separated from her body and into the hand of the fallen Ranger of Icewind Dale.

Drizzt gradually came to a sit, regarding the Eilistraeen's head before placing it next to him on the cot and kicking her body aside. He leaned against the tent pole and waited quietly, reaching into his belt and producing a small flask, which he opened and slowly sipped the pungent contents inside. He didn't want to consume too much of the bourbon, yet it was enough to keep him warm in the cool air and keep him occupied while waiting for his companions. The sounds of serenity around the village broke into a million screams and the clanging steel of battle. Drizzt smiled wider and gave a happy sigh. He wanted nothing more than to go out and join the slaughter, yet he only had one sword and couldn't be sure the plan had gone fully into effect until he received the signal…

…Which came in the form of a low whistle as a crossbow bolt landed into the tent pole a few feet above his head. He looked up at the bolt, then over to the lanky, yet muscular female drow coming into the tent. He head was shaven and bare save for a great, multicolored tattoo of a dragon that circled the crown. She stepped in cautiously, one hand bearing the crossbow and the other a longsword caked in blood.

"That was quick," Drizzt said calmly, replacing the top of the flask and putting it back in his belt. "You have something for me, Szir?"

Szir gave a sneering grin at the sight of the priestess' head and reached into her belt, adjusting the crossbow in the other hand as she drew a black handled scimitar with a large garnet in the pommel, throwing it to Drizzt, who caught it, raised it, and kissed the hilt. His attention then fell to the head beside him. At first he wanted to throw it to Szir, who would put it in her backpack and give both of them freedom to move in battle. Then again the sight of The Rogue Prince removing the head of a hated enemy from the backpack of a lower ranking soldier was not a very appealing one; though the idea of how the Eilistraeens would react to seeing the severed head of their protector might strike fear, or blind anger.

In a moment's thought, he lifted the head by the parted braids and put them over his neck; the priestess' long braids a chain while her head becoming a large medallion that swung around his stomach. This was slightly cumbersome, but then her head was relatively light and her hair long, putting the skull out of his range. It would work for one night, he thought. Szir laughed hard at the sight of him wearing the head around his neck. Drizzt laughed back while reaching into his belt and producing a black, leather half mask he put over his face and tied with one hand.

"Ready for some fun?" he said, motioning his head towards the tent flap.

Szir raised her sword and gave a growl, before turning around and rushing from the tent, Drizzt following a few steps behind her. Both were on the field and Drizzt noticed all of the Eilistraeens engaged in some way. It looked as if many of them were already dead or close to the end, while others fought Auzcovyn warriors or were picked off by poisoned bolts.

It didn't take long for the priestesses and warriors to notice Drizzt Do'Urden standing outside the tent; now wearing a black mask, wielding two scimitars…and wearing the head of Asil Qir'Treslin around his neck. Warriors charged at him and he stood still for a second before launching into a series of rapid feints and thrusts that caught two of them off guard for long enough to sink blades through their throats. Two more came at him; one losing both legs while the other's head was halved. More warriors came at him, though Drizzt could see their bravery sucked out by not only his thrusts but also the head that bobbed around his torso. The skull was indeed cumbersome, but for Drizzt it was an extra challenge that he met perfectly. Besides, this fight was getting a little boring and this just spiced it up.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of Szir hacking through bodies with her sword. Then there was Xalryln Adnis'Tir, the war leader of Drizzt's clan, using his longsword and mace to deliver a trail of bodies as the numerous braids in his white hair bobbed merrily. Drizzt briefly looked up to see fingers of fire reaching into trees and consuming concealed archers by the dozens. He could also see his close friend Mazn'reysla Sshemlet, wizard and High Priest of Vhaeraun, concealing himself in the brush and waving his fingers casually in a spell that controlled the tendrils, not saying a word and looking rather relaxed.

Drizzt plowed through the ranks, leaving hacked corpses behind; though he almost wished the Eilistraeens were putting up more of a fight. Barely half an hour later the fighting stopped. The field was strewn with the mutilated corpses of Eilistraee's flock as the Auzcovyn stood and cheered in victory. Drizzt stood still and surveyed the scene, savoring the bloody corpses and the groans of those who refused to die. He then walked towards Xalryln on the other end of the field all the while driving a sword or two into a body that looked like it was moving. At last he stopped before Xalryln and the rest of the Auzcovyn and raise his scimitars, face locked in a wide grin.

"A complete sweep and clear," Xalryln said, a huge smile embedded onto his lined face.

"Fine work, very fine," Drizzt said, giving the scene another look as he saw Mazn'reysla walking forward wearing his usual pleasant smile. "As you can see, the bitch is dead. Now, I want to go home and enjoy the rest of the night."

The twenty Auzcovyn cheered and began the march back to their camp just a mile away. Drizzt walked back to Mazn'reysla and gave a small bow, removing the head from around his neck and leaving a trail of blood in his hair. The High Priest stopped and regarded him, his doe eyes piercing Drizzt's soul. He reached a tiny hand up to his face and felt a few of the bruises along his cheek and eye.

"Xalryln did punch you hard," Mazn'reysla said, his soft voice perfectly calm.

"He did just as I asked him," Drizzt replied, putting a hand on his shoulder and tugging him away.

"Drizzt Do'Urden," a weak female voice called out.

Drizzt looked to the side and saw a female dressed in the garb of a priestess of Eilistraee, three arrows protruding from her body, though she managed to prop herself up on her elbows. Blood still poured from her lips and her eyes were wet with tears as she regarded Drizzt in sadness.

"Drizzt Do'Urden: the drow who defended goodness?" Nazlain shouted despite her weakening voice. "The drow who had found the light and protected others? The friend of the dwarves, the svirfneblin, and all the manner of goodly races? He who fought for the goodly folk and defeated hordes of villains?"

Drizzt walked towards her, his stomach tightening as a wave of complete rage came over him. He was tempted to add a few other things to that list: the drow shunned by his companions after his wife was killed? The hero ostracized by the same community he nearly died defending? The stupid boy who realized his goodly course was a series of lies and hypocrisies? The friend and student of two men he had cursed before as villains? Defender of a group of his own race he found worthier than any of the other "goodly" races? The devout worshipper of a dark god who gave him more support and understanding of himself than the goodly goddess he spent decades nominally recognizing? Drizzt wanted to say all these things, but none of them would have mattered to this slave of ideals.

"The drow who forsook the ways of his kin?" Nazlain added as another river of blood poured from her lips.

Drizzt paused and smiled.

"I still am," he said, reaching into his belt and flinging forward.

Barely a second later, a small throwing dagger slammed through Nazlain's forehead and she fell completely prone. A few lingering Auzcovyn gave laughs and cheers. Drizzt spat at her body and slowly walked away, holding the High Priestess' head high and marching out with his fellow Auzcovyn with much more enthusiasm. Mazn'reysla came beside him as he eventually joined the line with Xalryln. The passion of the slaughter was still with him, but the priestess' dying words still had a grip on his stomach.

Was it guilt; the lingering remains of his conscience that still haunted him? He determined that was not the case. Drizzt knew what guilt felt like, though the last time he felt true remorse for anything was when he sent his wood elf associates to Mithril Hall with the shattered remains of Twinkle. The Companions of the Hall had all but splintered, though a part of him still felt guilty for what he put them through, though in the end it had all been for the best.

Drizzt knew the cause for his current unease had nothing to do with any lingering goodness; it had everything to do with a slight sense of loss for the man he had once been. It was not a sad loss by any means, just that odd sense of separation. The Drizzt Do'Urden he was now was the evolution of the Drizzt Do'Urden he had been before; the young man growing out of his childish ideals and finding who he truly was; the side of him he had suppressed for so long and even given a name, The Hunter, was a large part of who he truly was and he realized this after a long period of personal dissection and discovery.

Unfortunately, the Ranger of Icewind Dale still lived in people's memories. He had not wanted to revisit his old life, but it was the only way he could have reached an enemy who was destroying his people. This was the price he knew he would pay, though that did not make it any easier.

"It has been a fine evening," a voice said beside him.

Drizzt broke from his painful reverie to look beside him and face the beaming red eyes of Mazn'reysla and feel them pierce his soul; a feeling that he found somewhat comforting. The High Priest gave his usual calm smile and looked back towards the path in front of them, one tiny finger absently twirling a lock of soft, champagne-blond hair. Drizzt could not take his eyes off his friend and counselor, merely savoring the absolutely calm, almost innocent visage that he knew hid great cruelty. It wasn't merely the black, cloth half mask on his face that suggested this, neither was it everything that Drizzt knew of him. The young wizard-cleric seemed to give off an aura of menace that he found absolutely fascinating.

"A fine night indeed," Drizzt replied, his smile widening as his eyes trailed to the front.

His gaze at last met the approaching tree forts of the Auzcovyn village. Soon many people came into view and all were gathered around in anticipation of the returning heroes. Drizzt's march became more determined as his fellow soldiers allowed him to pass to the front of the line. The soldiers entered the village to a hail of cheers. Drizzt lifted the priestess' head and screamed in victory. Drow of all manner of attire approached him, giving him pats on the shoulder, embraces, and some even bowing before him, calling him "_Malla Qu'ess_"; "Honored Prince". Adrenaline ran through Drizzt's veins as he savored this fabulous moment of victory.

The Rogue Prince had returned home.

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Drizzt could hear the tiny taps of the rain drops beginning their first assault on the leaves. The air became fresher, a moist perfume permeated by the scent of many campfires. He looked down the balcony of his small tree house at his people at play: a few soldiers rolled bones by a fire while a couple of young mages had a minor wizard's duel a few feet away, throwing cantrips at each other that only left a few bruises and stained robes.

It had to be past midnight, though the moon was hidden behind the heavy cloud cover. He adjusted his footing and leaned heavily on the wooden railing, a hand going through his freshly washed hair, which he chose to keep unadorned at the moment and flow freely. There was a chill in the air, yet Drizzt was more comfortable in a ragged, sleeveless tunic that showed off his arms, which had gained much more muscle tone in the past year, while his feet remained bare. His blood was only now cooling after their great victory and the passioned ceremony of offering to the Masked Lord that sent his heart racing every time it was performed. He frequently replayed the moment of Asil Qir'Treslin's head being lowered into the black, onyx bowl and being consumed by the blackness within. He stared at this sight and felt the dark comfort in his soul; Vhaeraun was pleased.

Now everything was quiet. The blood was washed off in the river, the torn clothes were discarded and replaced, and the cuts and bruises of the evening were swept away by a potion. Drizzt now stood on his balcony, overlooking the rain-kissed woods and taking in the gentle sounds of raindrops, passing birds, and the laughs of merriment below. He gave a long sigh for quiet moments like these still held absolute bliss; one factor of his life that never changed. Drizzt then shivered slightly as this moment of introspection threatened to take him places he was not comfortable going at the time; namely anything having to do with what the dying priestess had said earlier that night.

Drizzt reached into his belt and produced a small, leather pouch; reaching in and taking out a small, paper-thin sheet of aged birch bark and emptying a small amount of dried, crushed cloves into the center. He put the pouch back in his belt and carefully rolled brown bark around the cloves, licking one end and sealing the tube. He then brushed off a small amount of loose cloves from the ends and put one end in his mouth, taking a match from his belt, striking it, and lighting the tip. Drizzt shook the match out and drew enough of the sweet smoke into his mouth to taste and smell, yet was careful to keep it out of his lungs. Cloves tended to have the same effect on many elves as pipeweed, though it acted more as an aromatic than a drug. It did not need to be inhaled for its full, calming effects to be felt; making many to call it safer than pipeweed, though if the clove smoke was fully inhaled it could do more damage. The smoking of cloves was rather popular among the druids and wood elves in Cormanthor, as the herb was practically a widespread weed in many parts of the forest, and gained in popularity among the drow.

Drizzt allowed a thick cloud of the bluish-white smoke to trail past his lips and under his nostrils as he savored the smell that calmed him significantly. He was normally disdainful of any substance that altered the senses at the expense of the body, but he made an exception in this case; first experiencing this out of bored curiosity when he saw Xalryln light one up during a strategy meeting. He rarely smoked and this practice never impeded his prowess. Maybe it was indeed a lesser evil. That last thought put a sad smile on his face as he raised the stick and took another drag: the lesser evil, it had become a theme for him, almost the philosophy that seemed to describe his life.

A while ago he had been able to clear his thoughts and at last enjoy his new life; this double life of battle and camaraderie with his kin in Cormanthor and methodical murdr and plotting with his two partners in crime in Baldur's Gate. It had all been fun times over the past year since his first, unfortunate arrival to these woods; a great time to find himself spiritually and physically. That all changed just two months ago under all the most inevitable circumstances: the spring air slightly warming and the same scent coming through the forest as the one he remembered the morning Catti-brie was killed. Drizzt still remembered exactly what day it was; not only by the calendar but also by the mere feel of the air, or maybe an unspoken sense of dread in his heart.

Since then all the old emotions that he thought he had completely sorted out returned with a deep seated vengeance. Unlike many of his associates, Drizzt hadn't come to define emotion as akin to weakness. Being ruled by one's emotions was weakness, though completely shutting them down was to invite greater vulnerability; he found this out the hard way. Catti-brie was his wife, the love of his life, and she was killed in front of him. He held back his emotions for a tenday after her death until they finally consumed him and many people died in the process. Drizzt knew he had to allow himself at least some leeway to fully sort out his emotions and move on with his damn life, but he knew she would haunt him forever. Even eight centuries from that moment when he had blissfully passed to Vhaeraun after being too old to care about life any more, Catti-brie would always haunt him from whatever plane she live on now.

Would she still send her love, as Zaknafein said she did during their meeting last year? It was more than likely she saw all the horrible things he was doing and shedding astral tears every night: her husband was once a good man and had now given into the temptation of his blood. He would not be joining her in Dwarfhome or The Halls of Nature, or wherever she was now, after age or a blade claimed him; his final journey would be to the Demonweb Pits with the rest of his evil kin, though Drizzt knew his destination was Carceri with his god and no where near the Spider Bitch and her servitors. Once again, the lesser evil…

Drizzt took a long drag from the clove stick, feeling a slight burn in his chest indicating that some of the smoke had reached his lungs, and blew out a long stream with a small sneer. In the end, it didn't matter what Catti-brie thought about anything he was doing; he was moving on with his life and hers was over. That was the way it was and no one could say or do otherwise.

Catti-brie was dead, the Companions of the Hall abandoned him, and Drizzt found a new life surrounded by those he called friends in both here and in Baldur's Gate, despite the fact he watched himself around all of them and trusted no one. In the end that is what made these friendships so much more meaningful: he was surrounded by a group of scheming, backstabbing bastards who all would kill or die for him, though they would not hesitate to kill him should he betray them. This wasn't a happy, cozy union based on loyalty and blind trust in the name of any cause; it was a series of friendships held together by mutual honor and shared affections, true, well-earned friendships indeed.

Drizzt reached back into his belt and produced the flask containing the one vice he had been partaking a little too much of in recent weeks. He unscrewed the top and threw back the flask, the burning liquid assaulting his sinuses and the back of his throat and causing him to cough hard and lean forward, bracing himself against the railing as he let the searing wave pass. Drizzt let out a few deep breathes and looked up at the sky, putting the flask to his lips and taking a few more careful sips.

"Your mind is heavy," a soft voice said beside him.

Drizzt didn't need to look beside him to see who this unexpected guest was. He merely smiled, mentally thanking Mazn'reysla for his latest attempt to analyze him.

"The bitch's words reached the weak spot of your heart," the High Priest continued, looking out at the woods and then at Drizzt. "A eulogy over your corpse."

"Yes, that whole 'death of the spirit' matter you keep telling me about," Drizzt said calmly, taking another drag and blowing out a long stream as he looked over into his friend's beaming red eyes.

"It is only understandable," Mazn'reysla said, looking up at him with his usual polite smile.

Drizzt's only reply was a dirty chuckle as he took another sip from the flask. The High Priest only stared at him.

"Will you spend your Reverie here tonight?" Mazn'reysla asked.

"Yes," Drizzt said, nodding. "I return to Baldur's Gate tomorrow morning, lest our Rogue Knight track me down and cut my throat for lost productivity."

"You work yourself too hard, _khal abbil_," Mazn'reysla replied. "You need to learn to relax a little."

"That I do," Drizzt replied evenly, screwing the top back on the flask and putting it back in his belt.

Mazn'reysla gently shifted his position closer to Drizzt, placing a hand on his shoulder and slowly kneading his mid-length fingernails into his skin. Drizzt let his head gently come back and sighed, feeling the tension being worked out of his muscles while savoring a rush of minor pain through his skin. Mazn'reysla's fingers worked casually over his shoulder and trailed up his neck. He then let one fingernail gently scrape across the skin before withdrawing his hand and walking towards the door of Drizzt's tree house.

Drizzt took one last, long drag off the clove stick and looked backwards to see the High Priest casually walk into the building. He then blew a long trail and twisted the burning end, momentarily savoring the dull sear before extinguishing the stick and throwing it to the ground. He spun on his heel and walked towards the door, one lingering smile on his face.


	2. Dark, Mysterious Figures

**The Lesser Evil: Hooligan's Holiday**

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of R.A. Salvatore/Wizards of the Coast ©. I don't own them; I'm just examining all their possibilities.

Author's Note: I would like to give huge thanks to Haktari, Alzadea, Lessiehanamory, Suzeanne, Danayala, Rezuri, ViragoLuna, and SilverWolf who all reviewed "The Cruelest Fate" as well as everyone who read this story on Lavender Eyes and That story was a bit of an experiment that absolutely had to be written, though I knew a lot of people wouldn't like its subject matter at all. I was pleasantly surprised by the positive response it received, to a huge thanks to all of you who braved it. For those who haven't read it, "The Cruelest Fate" provides some insight into Drizzt and Mazn'reysla's relationship, though if you would prefer to leave that point a mystery, just continue on.

The cat in this story was infleunced by a series of IM conversations I had with my friend Keket, so huge thanks to her for all the warped, twisted ideas.

**Chapter 2: Dark, Mysterious Figures**

A jeweled dagger thrust into the empty cask on his left while Charon's Claw sliced the corner of the holding shed on his right. He kicked out against the gray, weathered wood, putting his foot through the wall of the flimsy excuse for storage space and pulled it out in a second to spin around and thrust the dagger forward with a loud growl. Sweat poured from his body as the unusually humid night continued its press, though Artemis Entreri never noticed.

Charon's Claw reduced another cask to pieces of weathered planks that reeked of ancient ale while his left foot kicked out and the force sent another barrel skimming over the flat stones that comprised the roof of Bani Pilazi's guild house, sending it tipping over the small turret and crashing into the alleyway a second later. Entreri's keen hearing did pick up the yowl of an ill-fated alleycat below, though he didn't care. His mind was a complete blur of anger, though a few coherent thoughts occasionally emerged amid the din.

"Its's not the first time someone has tried to kill you," he grumbled to himself in a horrible attempt at calming his rage.

Entreri went into another spin, his black ponytail whipping in his face as he thrust Charon's Claw out into thin air.

"In fact it has been the most regular event of your life."

He sidestepped a few paces and thrust the dagger back, spinning and swinging his longsword in a wide arc.

"So many people have wanted you dead, you fool, why are you losing it now."

He kicked out with one leg, cracking another barrel before Charon's Claw swung out and cut it straight in half.

"Why, because they weren't supposed to get that close!" he said at last before shoving the dagger into the side of the shed, the force traveling up his arm and aggravating the small wound from a hunting knife that had reached his shoulder earlier that night.

Entreri let out a loud, grunt of pain, before withdrawing the dagger with another growl and standing still to catch his breath. With a harsh sigh, he shoved his blades in their respective scabbards and ran a hand through his hair. He managed to calm slightly as his still shaking hands found their way to the buttons of his sweat-soaked, black tunic, which he carefully unbuttoned, shoving the panels aside before finally ripping it off and throwing it to the stones. His bare skin at last exploited a small chill in the night air and calmed his temper significantly.

Odds are good there is probably a crossbowman in the next building, he thought as he leaned on the shed and took another deep breath, and here you are completely exposed.

It was a thought that merely let out a chuckle as Entreri looked at the small, yet angry slice beside his collarbone. It was only a flesh wound, but the perspiration and lack of any treatment still made it ache like hell. A tiny drop of blood still oozed out, yet the wound was pretty much sealing itself.

Entreri turned away from the wound and looked out at the glowing sight of Baldur's Gate at night from the rooftop of a building that was only three stories, yet its location on a hilly side street gave it the perfect vantage point of the rest of the city. It had been his home for the past year and he made it his own. It was only supposed to be a location for a short stop in his many adventures, but then he was summoned by his old associate Bani Pilazi, a fellow lieutenant in Pasha Pook's thieves' guild in Calimport who ran to Baldur's Gate for his own business. The self-glorified idiot had recruited Entreri as yet another lackey employed to follow his whims and make him money while he never left his damn apartment. Entreri took the position, and practically took over the guild.

Pilazi never knew how much money his more calculating colleague had siphoned into his own coffers, which he made sure no one would touch besides him. The old man also never knew how many of his pet ruffians fell under the sword and were replaced with more skilled and obedient rogues of Entreri's choosing. While Bani Pilazi lounged on his velvet couch drinking Chultan cocoa and eating sautéed boar by the platter, his guild was in the full operational and financial control of his favorite lackey.

Over the past year, Artemis Entreri was the guild master; a position he wanted to be permanent. At first the only issue of contention was the involvement of Entreri's long time partner Jarlaxle, a drow who had a tendency of taking things over for himself. Jarlaxle accompanied him to Baldur's Gate and carved out his own, cozy niche; a state that made Entreri nervous. The last time Jarlaxle became involved with the world of Surface thieves' guilds, he took over one as a part of his rogue empire and reduced Entreri to the level of a puppet. Entreri was determined this would never happen again. Jarlaxle had already taken over the burglary and pick-pocketing division and recruited several master thieves, making much coin in the process and amassing much power and favor.

Entreri had done his best at isolating Jarlaxle in this position and arranging matters so he could not rise any further, though it almost seemed as though the shifty drow was comfortable in there, almost content. It had been seven years since Jarlaxle turned control of his powerful mercenary band Bregan D'aerthe to his even more untrustworthy lieutenant, the psionic Kimmuriel Oblodra, and since then he had little interest in its affairs. Entreri knew Jarlaxle and Kimmuriel still met on occasion to discuss business, but aside from that Jarlaxle seemed to prefer Surface intrigues over those of Menzoberranzan. It was a state that made Entreri even more suspicious, especially when the drow would occasionally volunteer for special projects. The idea of Jarlaxle willingly working under his former pawn was more than unsettling.

It seemed like good old times when this was the only concern on Entreri's mind. Despite dealing with his partner's scheming, all he needed to do was tie up a few other loose ends and get Pilazi alone for a second and all would be perfect: he would finally have a guild of his own. Then things slowly fell apart. He should have known the beginning of the end was at hand when he overheard one of the halfling pick-pockets remark to a colleague about the drunken idiot standing up in one of the sleaziest taverns in town and getting into a row with the bartender, saying that he deserved better whisky for being Bani Pilazi's son. Since then, everything had gone wrong.

Money in Entreri's private coffers started leaking out with Entreri unable to locate its source, some of his elite soldiers were either turning against him or showing up dead, and so many more inconveniences were popping up with Entreri unable to locate their source or even know what was going on before it happened; the lack of knowledge and control chafing against every raw nerve he had. Then there was that one idiot assassin springing on him in the hallway, then it was two idiots at once, then it was an idiot and a master.

Tonight had been the worst. Entreri was sitting in his office when three swordsmen broke from invisibility charms and sprang on him. All were clearly amateurs, but then there was that one kid with the knife; the one kid who sensed a remote amount of fatigue in his target and scored a hit. Had the scrawny wretch stuck any lower, Entreri could be dead, but he was saved by the child's clear lack of skill. It was not hard to dispatch all of them and send their bodies into the incinerator, but the damage had been done.

Entreri gave one more dagger thrust to the shed for good measure. That whelp should not have gotten that close, he thought to himself once more. Artemis Entreri was an expert fighter; a true master who had been perfecting his skills since he was a fourteen-year-old street urchin who could cut someone's throat with a well thrown rock. Now he was forty-seven-years-old; an age where most humans were wracked with stiffness as their energy levels faded rapidly, while his prime physical form had not changed since he entered his fourth decade. Just around the time he had taken in the essence of that damn Shade with his vampiric dagger, he thought with no small amount of apprehension; around the time when he stopped aging entirely, those tiny gray hairs that popped up in his ink-black mane easily plucked out and never appearing again while the requisite lines in his already hardened face never deepened.

Entreri took one last, lingering look out at the lights of Baldur's Gate, taking a deep breathe as one more troubling thought passed through his head; maybe you are more nervous about how close he came to killing you. Maybe you are actually starting to value your skin a little.

The assassin put his foot on the top of another barrel and aimed his leg towards the side of the roof…when a dark figure suddenly materialized right in his line of site. He held his leg for a second and put his hands to his weapons, readying himself for someone else who wanted a piece of him. The figure looked around for a second before taking a couple steps, his stark white hair and youthful yet hardened ebony features fully exposed in the moonlight. Entreri smirked and kicked the barrel right towards him. The newcomer heard the roll and nimbly stepped aside as the cask rolled away from him and off the roof, making a loud crash on the cobblestone street below.

"You're late," Entreri called, drawing his blades with a loud scream of metal.

The figure gave him a surprised look before rolling his glowing red eyes, the red gradually fading to the faintest lavender. Entreri took a few steps closer and took a better look at his companion, seeing the trail of dried blood leading from his hairline as one of his eyelids was slightly swollen as was the side of his lip, which still oozed blood. Do'Urden had a rough day, he thought, keeping his weapons drawn while taking a ready stance and looking at the drow with a venomous glare.

Drizzt gave a hard sigh and looked at the human in front of him.

"I'm not getting into this with you, Entreri," he said in an irritated tone.

"Too late," Entreri sneered, "you're already there."

The assassin lunged his sword and was not surprised when it was parried aside by a scimitar. Not missing a beat, the dagger swiped out and was hit aside by the second blade; one that Entreri knew could cause nastier wounds with merely one slice. The second scimitar thrust towards an opening and was met by Charon's Claw, which played the feint perfectly as the drow swept aside his blade and scored a small nick on the assassin's exposed arm. The scimitar was met by Charon's Claw in a loud scream as its wielder was thrown back a pace by the force, allowing Entreri plenty of room to swipe his dagger out in a feint and snap forward to score a small cut in his opponent's hand.

"Now we're even," Entreri sneered, swinging Charon's Claw in a wide arc and being met with a hard parry from the black handled scimitar that threatened to send the sword to the ground…for a second.

Entreri regained his grip and shrugged off the parry while swiping the dagger to the side in a feint, though a feint stopped by the other blade. The black handled scimitar swung out and was met be Charon's Claw, though the second was close behind and swinging for his shoulder, though it clanged against the dagger before even reaching that direction. The second blade made another arc, though the sword met it easily. It was obvious to the assassin that the drow's energy was slowly waning. He must have had a rough day.

Charon's Claw lunged forward, sending Drizzt back a few paces. He compensated for the distance by swinging the black scimitar out into a wide arc. Entreri parried with the sword, but immediately recognized the feint when it was too late. The second scimitar, Do'Urden's oldest blade, thrust forward quickly enough to score a superficial slice against Entreri's chest. The assassin winced slightly and sliced the dagger outward in an arc wide enough to slice a tiny part of the drow's chin just below the deep, angry scar that already lined his jaw.

Do'Urden wasn't badly hurt, though this obviously aggravated him more. The black scimitar made a wild slice and was met by the dagger, though the force sent a wave of pain through Entreri's arm. The drow noticed Entreri's recovery from this force and his subsequent lunge with his sword was a little slower than usual; he himself must have been fatigued. Given the pre-existing slice on his shoulder, Drizzt could only imagine why.

Entreri regained his bearings and then some; swinging the sword and barely missing Drizzt's abdomen. Drizzt stepped back further as the sword sliced out again and the dagger came on top of it. The drow fully parried the dagger while giving the sword a small tap before slamming into it harder; a technique he learned directly from…a friend of his, though he lacked the magical strength to shatter the enchanted sword; the same fate that befell his old scimitar Twinkle last year.

Entreri braced the blow, thought it looked like it pained him. Drizzt smirked and took another step back. He took a small glance back to see he was at the edge of the roof at this point, putting his foot back to jump on one of the small turrets and lunge forward. He didn't take into account his own waning energy after both this fight and the nasty battle a few hours earlier, where a tiefling and his twenty friends from the Nine Hells decided to drop by the Auzcovyn and start a little fight for some reason. It was only now when Drizzt recalled the ugly half-breed snapping his pointed tail and hitting him in this same calf, leaving a pretty purple bruise. The point of said tail was still in his belt pouch, as the bruise was still on his leg as his boots still carried small traces of wet mud from the forest he had just departed. He stepped up, only to have his calf muscle cramp at the awkward position while the sole of his boot glided on the mud,

Sending him flying backwards off the roof.

00000000

There was nothing but darkness, and then a bright, orange light came through Jarlaxle's fluttering eyelids. His vision was a blur, though his eyes managed to see one face in front of his numb form. Her visage was stone serious as usual, though a small smirk came across Triel Baenre's thin lips.

"You are most perfect," the woman he somehow knew to be the First Daughter of House Baenre said in a whisper that echoed through time.

His still-hazy vision looked down at his own, naked form lying prone before the High Priestess, his bare skin pressing against the cold stone and sending the chill of death through his body. Jarlaxle looked up and saw Quenthal Baenre just behind Triel, wearing a wider smile, her white teeth almost illuminated by the many candles festooned all around the High Chapel. Vendes, the younger daughter stood to Triel's left and looked almost impatient, while Sos'Umptu stood off to the side with her usual expression of chilling calm. Somehow he knew that elderboy Gronph Baenre was just outside the room and listening in despite the fact this was a high ritual.

"Name him," Triel barked, turning her head to the side and speaking to someone not in Jarlaxle's vision.

"Jarlaxle," a weak voice called from the back of the group, a voice that only added to the chill, the grating, yet once beautiful voice of Yvonnel Baenre, the First Matron of Menzoberranzan.

Jarlaxle began to scream, yet the only sounds from his throat were a series of discordant wails that pierced through his own being. Triel reached down with one hand and clutched his bald head tightly, her long fingernails producing a stinging ache as he felt a small trickle of his own blood while Triel closed her eyes and magic wafted from her form.

"Lady Lolth, Queen of the Demonweb, most feared and most honored," Triel said, her voice starting low then raising to an echo around the hollow room. "Accept this third-born son of House Baenre called Jarlaxle as our divine sacrifice."

Her tiny hand rose, revealing an obsidian dagger, which she aimed directly over his heart. He screamed louder, but his cries only pierced the screaming air and put wider smiles on the faces of the priestesses. It was as if the whole universe was wailing; the braziers becoming unholy torches as Jarlaxle lay naked and defenseless. He screamed louder, trying to curse at Triel, the other daughters, the First Matron, Lolth herself. Instead his words were just a blur of wails.

In a rapid motion that seemed to slow through time, Triel raised the dagger while the priestesses chanted. His screams became louder, but only reverberated on themselves and blurred his senses further. The dagger fell through the air and gradually pierced his soft flesh, cutting through his ribs with a horrifying crack of bone, and embedding into the tough muscle of his heart. His life essence bubbled up like a fountain as a series of obsidian claws found their grip around the violently twitching organ and the High Priestess's hand rose as she gave out a shrill cackle.

A shrill cackle that took the sound of smashing glass.

Jarlaxle let out a piercing scream and felt himself falling on the lush carpet of his room, the blissful darkness enveloping him as he tried desperately to catch his breath from the series of shrill wheezes it had become. He looked up to the large window across the room and saw a black-booted foot emerge from one smashed pane as a dark figure caught its footing and dropped on the shallow ledge below.

On first instinct, he produced a small throwing dagger from his bracer and aimed at the figure, his mind calming enough to know that one careful shot could break the glass and send the blade and the shards through the flesh of the intruder. Jarlaxle began to wake more from his Reverie to see the long white hair and scarred face of Drizzt Do'Urden through the window as he caught his footing on the ledge and carefully dropped down from sight. Jarlaxle kept the dagger aimed, then loosened his grip on the blade, letting in drop down enough so he could clasp the handle with his hand, his eyes not coming away from the window. The moon outside was awakening his consciousness more as rationality started to return; it was a dream.

He rose from the floor and carefully walked over to the window, his boots crunching against the broken glass on the floor as he surveyed the damage. Of all six tiled panes in the window, only one on the middle left was completely destroyed. He looked down to the street and saw the young drow had lightly landed on his feet and raised his right leg, stretching the calf muscle out with a small grimace and words on his lips that clearly resembled drow curses while his hands still clutched two scimitars. Jarlaxle then saw another dark figure hop down and casually walk over, sword drawn and pointing it right at the dark elf. Drizzt gave a casual glance at the small human approaching him, who Jarlaxle immediately identified as Artemis Entreri by the black ponytail and the brilliant weapons; though he found it a little strange that his shirt was unbuttoned.

Drizzt put his foot back down on the ground and looked calmly at Entreri while maintaining a loose stance.

"Do you yield?" Jarlaxle heard Entreri say, his voice faint through the broken window.

"Hells no," Drizzt replied with no hint of emotion on his face.

Entreri walked in closer, sword still out with a small smirk on his face.

"Good," he said, sheathing both his blades in one motion.

Drizzt gave him a dirty smirk and sheathed his scimitars, taking a noticeably more relaxed gait.

"Up for a drink?" Drizzt asked in a tired tone.

"Oh yes," Entreri replied nodding fervently, buttoning his shirt and walking away with Drizzt following close behind.

The two figures then disappeared from the street and Jarlaxle's sight. He leaned against the wall and caught the last of his breath as the dream still lingered in his memory. Jarlaxle knew he should be used to this by now for he had the exact same dream this exact time of the year every year for as long as he could remember. The exact cause or reason was one for which he had stopped trying to find an answer.

He gradually peeled himself off the wall and walked over to his dresser on the other side of the room while depositing the dagger back in his bracer; his head was still heavy, though he was a bit more coherent. He pulled open one of the drawers and rooted through a series of neatly stacked tunics and gradually uncovered a small bottle of mushroom wine, his favorite vintage he only drank on special occasions. He grabbed the bottle carefully by the side, pulled out the ancient cork, and laid it on the dresser. His wandering eyes then caught the sight of a small, burlap bag he had put there that day. With a small laugh, Jarlaxle reached his free hand into the bag and pulled out a large sugar cookie he bought from a street vendor just a few hours ago.

Jarlaxle looked up to the ceiling and raised the bottle.

"Happy birthday, you old bastard," he said in as cheery a tone as he could muster

Jarlaxle took a small, lingering sip from the bottle, savoring its strong, rich contents before taking a small bite of the cookie and closing his eyes in absolute bliss; though a bliss only temporary. He needed to be out of this damn room. Jarlaxle threw the cookie down on the dresser with such a force that cracked it. He then picked up the cork, slammed it into the opening of the bottle, and placed the bottle on the top of the dresser with a more careful hand.

He then turned around and picked his large, plumed hat off a nearby chair, collected his cape in his other hand, and moved towards the door. Jarlaxle then turned immediately on his heel and walked toward the broken window with a wicked grin.

00000000

"'The Foul Villain Moril,'" Drizzt read from the large poster with a tone of dramatic sarcasm, taking a sip from his glass of whisky.

"Oh look a new one," Entreri replied in a tone of tired enthusiasm as his eyes came from the swirling contents of his wine glass to wide board of wanted posters right on the wall inside The King's Standard tavern.

The board comprised the entire wall of the relatively large room and was peppered with various pieces of parchment containing everything from a few words scrawled out by pen to elaborately printed works containing vivid drawings. All had one thing in common; they were all posters containing the descriptions and reward information for a multitude of wanted criminals. Other taverns may have adorned their walls with tapestries, weapons, or other items of decoration to give the watering hole some aesthetic value. The main visual adornment of The King's Standard, however, was more practical; catering directly to their clientele of mercenaries, bounty hunters, and other rogues for hire and given the many other rough looking characters of various races and persuasions eying the board while sipping their drinks, it was a feature that was very good for business.

Drizzt leaned back in his chair and shot a glance to the human sitting across from him sipping his wine and reading the board intently, finding it interesting how Entreri still kept the habit of checking out the wall on a regular basis despite the fact his bounty hunting days were pretty much over; going from being a mere sellsword to organizing a major thieves' guild…that wanted him unemployed or better yet dead according to what he heard. Maybe the human was merely keeping tabs on the latest news in the criminal world, or keeping his options open.

"'The Temple of Tymora is offering a reward of fifty thousand gold pieces to any brave soul who captures the wizard and enemy of the gods known as Moril,'" Entreri read from the large, prominently displayed poster out loud in a mutter. "Huh, now a temple is directly putting a price on his head instead of going through their lackeys."

"I take it this malcontent is rather popular," Drizzt said, taking another drawn sip of the strong spirit.

"Oh, popular indeed," Entreri replied with a dirty chuckle, taking a hasty sip from his own glass and sitting higher in his chair. "'On the fifteenth of Tarsakh, the sacred temple of Our Smiling Lady in Beregost was subject to a brutal alchemical attack by the subjects of Moril. The Temple was destroyed and five of Lady Luck's clerics were killed. We are asking the good people of the land to aid us in finding this villain who attacked our temple…"

"Our tiny shack located in the middle of the woods most likely," Drizzt replied with a groan.

"Actually located in the city barrens, I've seen and smelled it," Entreri said, taking a sip from his glass before continuing to read. "'Moril is a corrupt leader who claims to represent a divine cause by amassing followers, whose minds he poisons with his lies and magic and commands to do his bidding. He and his followers are easily identifiable by their'…you will just love this…'painted white faces adorned with horrible black lines like a mockery of a harlequin and their uniform of black stockings and black and white ruffled tunics.'"

Drizzt nearly choked on his whisky from the sudden guffaw before coughing and laughing harder.

"My sweet Masked Lord, our horrible cultist is a circus performer," Drizzt said in an attempt at seriousness, "I will carry that one with me for a while. So If I bring in they head of a clown and change the make-up I can get fifty thousand gold?"

"'Do not approach him directly, for Moril is a powerful Enchanter surrounded by many dangerous followers,'" Entreri continued, his tone hastier as he read through the requisite warnings. "'Moril or his corpse should be delivered directly to the authorities of Baldur's Gate to claim the reward…' et cetera, et cetera."

"The man or his corpse," Drizzt repeated with a long sigh before raising his glass in a mocking toast. "Oh the work of the goodly churches."

"You of all people should know the goodly churches still like their games," Entreri said, making eye contact with Drizzt and pointing to a smaller poster located directly above the one they were just reading.

"'The authorities of Greenest place a reward of thirty thousand gold pieces on the foul cultist Moril,'" Drizzt read out loud, rolling his eyes and adding a groan before continuing, "'who was responsible for the terrible rending of the Temple of Torm…' well at least they are using different adjectives."

"They must have removed the message courtesy of the Temple of Selune in Daggerford," Entreri said, scanning the board. "The community obviously wanting to show some support…or put some money in their own coffers before the respective church's paladins take away their business opportunity."

"Though Tymora is a goddess of commerce," Drizzt added with a smirk.

Entreri responded with a dirty laugh before turning his attention back to his glass. Drizzt took another long sip while letting his eyes wander to the front of the room. He eyed a few buxom barmaids in low cut dresses before his ogling was noticed by the surly, squint-eyed gaze of Millie, the aged halfling who ran the bar. Drizzt gave a nod in polite recognition before turning his attention to his glass. A second later, he looked up and saw a figure wearing a brilliant red cloak, a wide brimmed purple hat, and a stiff smirk just a foot away. He managed to hide his sudden surprise, shooting Jarlaxle a smile before taking a sip before glancing at Entreri who was looking at him with a dirty smirk.

"You flinched," the assassin said to Drizzt, casually leaning back and sipping his wine, the grin still plastered on his face.

"You knew he was here," Drizzt replied in a matter-of-fact tone.

"You know he doesn't like to be referred to in third person while he is right in front of you," Jarlaxle said in a tone bordering on annoyance and plain irritation.

"Well someone's in a pleasant mood tonight," Drizzt said, not bothering to turn his head when Jarlaxle walked behind him. "What's the matter, _abbil_, catch a cold, aching back, can't get it up?"

Entreri let out a muted cackle, taking another sip and leaning back further.

"Or maybe you can't get it down," Drizzt said, shooting a glance behind him and seeing the same annoyed smirk.

"Sideways?" Entreri muttered into his glass, though the keen hearing of his elven counterparts caught everything.

Drizzt laughed and lifted his glass before feeling a small, stinging slice on the side of his neck. Instinctually, his hand grabbed the wound as he let out a small yelp; feeling a small amount of blood coming from a tiny cut on the very surface of his skin. He looked up and saw Jarlaxle taking the empty chair between him and Entreri before letting both elbows crash on the small wooden table.

"What's the matter, _abbil_," Jarlaxle said, leaning in closer to directly face Drizzt, "get a little shock? Much like the shock one gets when he is suddenly awoken from his Reverie by an unpleasant noise…" the mercenary's hand came off the table, his thumb sliding a thick chunk of broken glass between his middle and forefinger by the blunt edges; a tiny smear of blood remained on the side as he put it an inch from Drizzt's face "…a noise like the sound of a window being smashed in by the foot of a certain drowling during his horseplay?"

Drizzt gave his kinsman a grave look, then smirked and gave a low chuckle, moving his hand to take a look at the small smear of blood along his fingertips before lapping it off in a single, lewd drag of his tongue. Entreri watched this scene trying to hold back a smile. It was always fun to see Drizzt and Jarlaxle take jabs at each other; Jarlaxle was a master manipulator while Drizzt, in his opinion, was just plain crazy, it was a perfect match. The assassin always hoped one day they would come to blows; remembering the story Jarlaxle told him ages ago of how the drow's Weapon Master friend Zaknafein boasted that Drizzt could easily best Jarlaxle in combat. After learning that Zaknafein was actually Drizzt's father, a rare drow who actually gave a damn about his son, Entreri was still curious to see if the Weapon Master's prediction was based on a tinge of paternal pride or any actual gauge of skills; though given the fact the prophecy was made by any drow, no matter if he actually possessed a heart or not, it was likely the latter was true.

"All apologies, my captain," Drizzt said in a disarmingly polite tone that carried venom, "it was most rude of me to fall off the roof and try to regain my footing. I guess you would prefer that I became a stain on the ground for your convenience."

"Cheeky little bastard," Jarlaxle said, throwing the glass on the table in front of Drizzt and barely missing his hand. "Just learn to look first."

Entreri's smirk widened. Since Drizzt joined their group a year ago, Jarlaxle had almost taken the role of Drizzt's guardian; flicking the point of his ear for a snide retort, giving him a glare when he drank too much, and sitting with him over papers in the guild house and showing him the finer points of racketeering. Entreri was almost tempted to call their relationship adorable. He looked over at both of them exchanging icy glances and was suddenly reminded of the actual age difference between them. By the lines on his face and the way the skin formed along his knuckles, Entreri guessed that Jarlaxle was likely in his middling years by elven standards while Drizzt, his face still smooth and skin still a vibrant shade of ebony, was still in his adolescence, probably around eighteen by human terms. Then there was the fact Drizzt Do'Urden had begun to act very much like a reckless drow youth after his personal epiphany last year, a fact that still put small pangs of humility through the assassin; he once judged himself based on the actions and morals of a confused teenager. Entreri frequently recalled himself at eighteen, powerful, strong, yet overly cocky and thinking the world revolved around his ideas on how things were done; just like the powerful dark elf warrior who based so much on his morals…

A sudden crash on the table turned all eyes away from their respective glaring. When the glasses settled and the wood was still, Entreri looked down to see a small, black cat had jumped on the table, though something about this cat was not entirely normal. Its fur was tattered and its ears took an exaggerated point. The assassin swore he saw a series of small spines running the length of its back while its waving tail had a forked spike at the end. Its eyes were a shade of fiery red, the diamond-shaped pupils in an exaggerated shape and seemed to bore through him.

Drizzt looked at the cat and grinned, letting out a triumphant cackle.

"What did I tell you about letting your pets on the table?" Jarlaxle said to Drizzt in a tone of mock scolding while his own red eyes scanned the length of the bizarre feline as his keen nose caught the slight odor of sulfur.

The cat sat straight, arching its back yet not taking its eyes off Entreri, who couldn't help but feel a little disturbed by this unnatural gaze. The animal reminded him of a king presenting himself to his subjects, or worse a Matron Mother making her first appearance before a group of minions. The cat's head turned to Jarlaxle, giving him a glare and twitching its whiskers before shifting its sinewy muscles and looking at Drizzt.

"Now aren't we a precious one," Drizzt cooed, putting out his hand and lightly patting the animal's head.

Entreri and Jarlaxle braced themselves for a shower of blood and their companion's hand being torn off, but instead the feline closed its eyes and relaxed in response to the touch, its long mouth taking a smirk. The cat's eyes then opened and looked at Drizzt directly, a forked, red tongue coming from its mouth and licking its whiskers before padding along the table and jumping off.

Drizzt sat still for a second, and then rose from his seat.

"It seems I have business to attend to," he said to his companions, "I shall return shortly." With a nod of his head and one lingering look at Entreri and Jarlaxle's confused expressions, he carefully placed his glass on the table and followed the animal across the bar and toward the door saying, "Come on, precious, where's your master?"

None of the patrons seemed to notice the bizarre feline or even made any more reactions other than the occasional glance. The crowd at The King's Standard was a motley crew. Drizzt and Jarlaxle were never even glanced at for their race and Drizzt now noticed that Millie's beholder bouncer seemed to have the night off. He walked out the flimsy, wooden door and followed the feline a ways down one of the roughest streets in Baldur's Gate, a place where he felt perfectly at home, dodging a few neglected crates and sheets hanging from a low clothesline while glancing at the alley ways for any troublemakers. A few vagrants sleeping on the street looked up at him and cowered beneath their blankets. Drizzt would smile and give them long gazes before laughing to himself and continuing his course a few feet behind the cat.

The cat turned the corner and padded its way onto a more hospitable side of the street just adjacent from the grand Temple of Gond. The moonlight shone at the right angle against the wall for Drizzt to see the figure casually leaning against the wall and looking out at the various nighttime revelers. The cat eagerly padded to the figure and wrapped itself around his ankles, disappearing under his gray robe covered in various colored patches, though a second later it stood out against his light brown trousers and simple green slippers. The figure bent down and easily picked up the small feline, cooing some soft words in its ear while scratching a mid-length fingernail under its chin. The feline looked to be in the purest luxury, its forked tongue occasionally trailing out and catching on of the champagne-blond braids that strewn down its master's ebony face.

"You managed to tame her," Drizzt said, walking closer to Mazn'reysla while keeping his eyes on the demonic feline in his arms.

He remembered just a tenday ago when the High Priest told the story of how he found this animal wandering the outskirts of the cursed ruins of Myth Drannor. Apparently the two had a conversation of sorts and learned that the cat was the scion of a stray tabby from Ashabenford and a quasit who wandered out of a corrupted mythal.

"More than that," Mazn'reysla said with a small hint of pride, his own beaming red eyes. "We are one now."

"So that's why you took off so soon last night," Drizzt said, seeing the cat's eyelids part and the glowing red shining obviously through. "And why I haven't seen you all day; you made her your familiar."

Maz nuzzled his nose against the cat's head. Drizzt caught the sight of both sets of red eyes open while black fur pressed blissfully against black skin. Sometimes familiars and their masters tended to resemble each other.

"Her name is Azril," he said, lowering the cat and letting her recline on his right arm while his left hand continued to pat her head. "I am not just here to boast of my own victory, but to commend you on yours; I apologize for my absence…"

"No need," Drizzt interrupted, though his face betrayed some mild displeasure at having his High Priest absent from a nasty battle, though the day was won by the Auzcovyn and none of his people received any major injuries. "Did you find out who the tiefling was and why he went after us?"

"I did," Maz replied, his voice calm, but Drizzt caught the hint of strain; he was not bearing good news.

Mazn'reysla reached into his robes and produced a small scrap of fabric, handing it to Drizzt who ducked further into the dark and let his infrared vision see the full details. The fabric seemed to glow with the emblem of a gauntlet clutching a heavy mace with rays streaming from the fingers.

"Shit," Drizzt growled, immediately recognizing the symbol of the god Bane, whose followers had a rather checkered history with the drow of Cormanthor.

"That was torn from the side of the tiefling's tunic," Mazn'reysla replied. "A few others of those emblems were scattered around the field."

Drizzt stared down at the symbol hoping the reason for its presence wasn't as bad as he was assuming. Symbols of Bane in Cormanthor meant the presence of the Zhentarim, a dark organization of soldiers and wizards who had strong political and military power starting at their stronghold in Zhentil Keep and spreading throughout all the areas bordering the forest. Bane was a tyrannical god who demanded his followers take over Faerûn a piece at a time and most of the Dalelands was already under Banite control; the portion of the Dalelands not inhabited by the drow.

The two factions tended to stay out of each other's way; the Banites not interested in rotting elven treehouses in the middle of the woods and the drow not giving a damn about the people of the Dales when they were not scaring them into submission enough to not investigate their activities. Zhentil Keep even allowed the occasional drow trader past their gates and passing Zhents usually received safe passage through Cormanthor; safe passage meaning the drow did not purposely attack them, but a stray bolt or two occasionally missed the mark. It was even rumored that Bane had a very loose alliance with Vhaeraun at one point in ancient history, but even Maz was kept ignorant of those dealings. Regardless, the relationship between the Zhentarim and the Cormanthor drow was far from cushy; both factions aware the other could turn on them at any second, like a battle where a tiefling under Bane's sponsor decided to bring his friends against a group of Auzcovyn.

"Hardly a full scale attack by Zhentil Keep," Mazn'reysla said, reading Drizzt's face yet again, "but enough to let out some steam. Bane is angry."

"Since when was Bane ever happy?" Drizzt said with a laugh, the image of a muscular, horned deity smiling broadly and dancing around unable to leave his head.

"His anger carries a purpose," Maz said, trying to hold back his own smile. "One of his most sacred temples on the outskirts of the forest was destroyed last night and many of his personal effects were destroyed."

"And I'm sure we're to blame somehow?" Drizzt said, though he suddenly recalled the poster in the tavern. "That's funny; I read something about a cult leader who has already…"

"Destroyed five temples," Maz finished. "Torm, Tymora, and Selune are sending their faithful after this simple mortal, delivering their divine retribution and punishing the evil-doer, though Bane wants him so badly he can taste it. Our ally Shar would also like a piece of him, though she is staying quiet for now."

"This Moril character went after a temple of Shar as well?" Drizzt asked, folding his arms and leaning against the wall.

"Last month," Maz continued, looking down to see the Azril was asleep, "A small chapel just outside of Yartar, but nonetheless. The deities know he plans more and he has grown quite powerful."

"He has also been acting in a relatively short span of time," Drizzt added pensively, tapping a finger against his pointed chin. "Though from what I understand, all of his attacks have been small."

Maz then closed his eyes as a chill passed through his form. Drizzt looked at him with a hint of concern until a small shift of movement passed through his peripheral vision. He looked over to see two figures across the street, both small forms clad in black leotards that covered every area from the top of their heads to their feet and wearing tunics with one black panel and one white joined by a white ruffle. Both did somersaults around each other followed by a series of synchronized backward flips. Drizzt clearly saw their faces painted white, mouths lined in black with one side in a grimace and the other in a smirk and eyes painted with black diamonds; the mockery of a harlequin.

Drizzt reached for the hand crossbow on his belt, nocked a poison-tipped bolt, aimed at one, and then fired, but the bolt floated harmlessly past post; both harlequins moving unnaturally fast and weaving positions too swiftly. A few cartwheels and backward flips later, they were right on the steps of the Temple of Gond. Both then ran directly up the stone walls, did a back flip, and landed perfectly on the roof; arms out and legs spread.

A burst of flame shot from both and both harlequins exploded in a fiery conflagration; the blast taking out half the roof and sending Drizzt and Maz to the ground; both instinctively covering each other as they ducked further into an alleyway and felt the sting as sharp bits of stone pelted their backs. A second later, the roar was replaced by the gentler sound of a crackling fire and the small screams coming from people on the street that came across the scene.

Drizzt and Mazn'reysla slowly came out of their huddle and rose to see the great Temple of Gond half blasted out as various bloody bodies clad in artisan's aprons bearing the symbol of the Lord of All Smiths were strewn around the street.


	3. Fade to Black

**The Lesser Evil: Hooligan's Holiday**

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of R.A. Salvatore/Wizards of the Coast ©. I don't own them; I'm just examining all their possibilities.

**Chapter 3: Fade to Black**

The entire tavern was locked in one violent jolt as if a giant had decided to push it out of spite. Patrons of The King's Standard let out small yells and gasps at the sudden force as bottles slid from tables and various bottles of liquor behind the bar crashed to the floor in a horrible scream of glass, followed by a loud curse from tavern master Millie, who managed to dodge the catastrophe in time. Entreri was still holding his glass of wine, but Jarlaxle's snifter of fine brandy was left unguarded, sliding off the table and crashing to the floor followed by another loud curse, this time from the drow.

Entreri came to his feet and instinctively put a hand to his weapons while bracing himself for whatever came next. What followed were a series of angry grunts from the patrons; few seemed to be actually concerned about the cause of the quake, though more were mourning the loss of their respective glasses, including Jarlaxle who almost seemed saddened by it. Everything was still once more and a few managed to overcome the loss of their liquor and ran from the building to investigate.

Overcome by curiosity and the sudden need to do something beside sit there, Entreri sprinted from his table and joined a few stragglers out the door, following what had become a long trail of people running down the street. Entreri shoved along with them, glancing behind once to see Jarlaxle on his heels moving along swiftly, though his face betrayed his fatigue and complete lack of any desire to move at the moment. The trail of people continued down the street as both heard a few screams and indecipherable yells, though the clearest phrases amid the din were "blown clean through" and "the grand temple." Entreri merely kept his focus and followed the crowd a few blocks until the whole line turned the corner.

Entreri and Jarlaxle's respective visions cleared the building and suddenly faced a calamity. Gond's House of High Wonders that had taken up three city blocks was now a burning shell. The roof and the first two levels of the building were gone, while the rest was steadily burning. The shattered remains of stone and glass littered the entire area from the temple perimeter to the cobblestone street. A mass of people gathered around the scene of the catastrophe; some were on their knees praying to their respective deities while some were merely milling around, though Entreri's attention turned to the few who scoured the ground and found bits and pieces of artifacts and rare gadgets created by the church of the Lord of all Smiths, stowing them in their respective pouches away from the ever present watch of the city guard, who seemed to swarm the area like rats while investigating and keeping spectators away from the wreckage. Jarlaxle looked a bit beyond the crowd and saw a small collective of blue-robed wizards gathered around the building and casting water enchantments on the fire, while some sprayed a white powder on the conflagration from various white wands.

Entreri and Jarlaxle remained along the wall of the building across the street while getting a better view from the side where fewer people had gathered. The small yard in front of the temple was now completely visible, as well as the mass of mangled bodies being pulled out by apron-clad comrades and laid out on the deep green grass, that now took a shade of charred black and blood red. Some of them wore the vestments of Gond's clergy, while others wore the simple garb of artisans who merely stopped by to worship their god and savor the mechanical wonders displayed around the building. All of them were covered in blood, their own or someone else's as each body more varying degrees of damage. As the bodies were being properly laid out on the grass, many of them were still screaming and groaning in pain while clerics came over to all of them and gave healing spells. Soon, both mercenaries were aware of the presence of clerics wearing other vestments; both seeing the usual clerics of Tymora, Torm, and Ilmater (a presence that conjured an involuntary smirk from both).

Jarlaxle scanned the devastation in a muted interest as he scanned the field, catching the grizzled beards of humans, the squat faces of gnomes, the occasional white pointed ear of an elf or two, and the black pointed ear of a…

The mercenary did a sudden double take and refocused on the black skinned figure kneeling on the ground over a human covered in blood, laying his glowing hands on the man's abdomen while his child-like face was locked in concentration, champagne-blond braids strewn across his face.

"That's not who I think it is, is it?" Jarlaxle muttered to his partner, making eye contact and pointing towards the one drow in the crowd.

Entreri looked over and nodded with a sigh.

"It most certainly is," he said, watching Mazn'reysla finish his spell as the injured human gained a smile and tears of great happiness; Entreri mentally noting the reason why Drizzt left so soon.

Almost as if on cue, the air that normally reeked of dirty chimneys, horse dung, and pipeweed suddenly took the faint, yet potent scent of burning cloves, a scent completely picked up by the keen noses of both. Entreri and Jarlaxle looked behind them in the direction of the strongest scent and saw Drizzt casually leaning against the wall and watching the whole scene, taking a drag from a clove stick and lazily blowing out a long stream.

Entreri raised an eyebrow and looked at the stick with slightly narrowed eyes. He had come to tolerate his companion's new habit, yet the entire concept of smoking was one he completely despised, especially if it was done by a seasoned warrior who should be keeping himself in top form; it was bad enough Drizzt was drinking more than he should. It was a thought that made him aware of the look he was giving Drizzt, the same one Jarlaxle typically gave the younger drow when he put away too many glasses in one night. Entreri casually glanced away and noticed the small smirk Jarlaxle was giving him akin to the look of one chewing on a piece of rothé dung; the scolding look was noted.

Drizzt was paying no attention to the entire exchange. His eyes instead remained focused on Mazn'reysla, who had turned his attentions to the badly broken leg of a human woman in the garb of a blacksmith. After the smoke cleared from the blast, Maz immediately ran over to surviving clerics tending to the mass of bodies, receiving pointed glares at first, though glares tempered by the sight of a silver medallion around his neck bearing the silver crescent moon worn by the clergy of Eilistraee. Drizzt was silently glad the darkness and general chaos prevented anyone from noticing the black cinders that lined the edge of the medallion; the last remains of the sigil's former owner whose body was consumed by one Mazn'reysla's flame fingers during the battle last night. Fortunately the chaos also prevented anyone from noticing that no energy was coming from the medallion on his neck but the concealed black mask in his pocket. The very fact the High Priest was a drow was a moot point by now.

"Please tell me you had nothing to do with this," Jarlaxle said to him in a tired tone, breaking him from his concentration.

Drizzt slowly shook his head, took a drag, and looked around before turning his attention back to his partners.

_Blame this one on tumbling harlequins_, he signed, turning his head and blowing a thick cloud of clove smoke.

Jarlaxle raised an eyebrow, though Entreri's black orbs widened.

_The followers of Moril_, the assassin hastily signed. _You are absolutely sure_.

Drizzt gave a profound nod. Jarlaxle grimaced and nodded in recognition. It was a name he had heard among rogue circles for the past two months, yet thought nothing of it.

_I assume we're talking about the Clown Cultist_, the mercenary signed.

_We are talking about two harlequins clad in black leotard, ruffled shirts and painted faces_, Drizzt signed, prompting a sigh and a fervent nod from Entreri, _both of whom did a whole acrobatic routine down the street, dodging a master crafted crossbow bolt, and practically floating on the roof before they exploded._

Drizzt glanced back to the field and caught sight of Mazn'reysla before blinking and looking again. The High Priest was leaning over a weeping gnome, whose arm had been blown off. Vhaeraun explicitly forbade any of his followers from having any dealings with dwarves or gnomes, and here was Mazn'reysla treating the critical wounds of one of the small folk. Mazn'reysla was no rebel against his deity, far from it; he was an absolutely devout servant of the Masked Lord. That and the fact Maz tended to have close contact with his god made this sight even more curious, perhaps frightening; Mazn'reysla was likely operating under direct orders, which was probably the reason why he ran out to aid in the first place. Vhaeraun was now involved in this matter, though the exact nature of his interest would probably remain lost to Drizzt…until the Masked Lord officially dragged him in.

The fallen ranger turned his attention back to his fellows and noticed both remained in a silence while looking around at the chaos. Drizzt's keen ears caught a few shouts and wails from the crowd along with the general buzz of conversation, words that reached the ears of his companions as well.

"Judging by the amount of times I have heard references to demonic acrobats," Jarlaxle said out loud, putting his hands on his slender hips, "as well as the name of Moril cursed, laughed at, spat upon, and I think even toasted, I guess you're information is not exclusive."

"It's a typical night and this is a main thoroughfare," Drizzt said taking a long drag and hastily blowing a thin stream, "I'm sure ours weren't the only eyes open. You know that by now every mercenary and bounty hunter within a hundred foot radius of the city is now clown hunting."

"Every bounty hunter and mercenary?" Jarlaxle asked motioning around the circle. "So are we going after this miscreant as well?"

Entreri and Drizzt glanced at each other. Drizzt was neutral on the subject at the moment, though judging by Mazn'reysla's actions, he might become involved on his own terms. Entreri's expression, however, betrayed a small amount of eagerness held back by what was probably reality; everyone and their dead uncle would be looking for these elusive figures that spread themselves out nicely and moved even quicker, while he still had a guild to keep from imploding.

Jarlaxle observed the exchange and gave a small smirk when both gazes fell on him.

"Well, that settles it," he said, replacing his hands on his hips. "Unless my services are needed further, I'm going to The Pink Pearl for a little refreshment and pleasant conversation." Drizzt and Entreri exchanged another sidelong glance; the Pink Pearl was one of the most infamous brothels in Baldur's Gate and knew Jarlaxle by his name, what he drank, and what his preferences were in female flesh. "I would invite you gentlemen along, but considering the human has forgotten how to use his masculine parts and the drowling really should attend to his mistress, I will save my breath."

Jarlaxle made a curt tip of his hat before turning on his heel in a swirl of his red cape and walking swiftly down the street. Drizzt and Entreri watched him in silence for a second, marking the loud clicks of his bootsteps on the cobblestones as he faded from sight.

"No, he can't get it down," Entreri muttered.

"I still think he can't get it up," Drizzt said, his face completely deadpan before cracking into a wide smirk.

Entreri chuckled, flashing a smile at Drizzt and nodding before walking towards the guild house.

Drizzt gave a small cackle in return, turning his attention back to Mazn'reysla, who was now attending to an apprentice carpenter, while taking one last drag from his clove stick. For some reason the scatter of bodies over the lawn was a rather amusing sight. He found himself savoring all the cries, all the choking gasps of the dying, and all the ways the bodies could be torn apart and still squirm with the last surge of fading life.

At one point, he thought, you would have been over there helping them.

He let a thick cloud trail past his lips as he savored the sweet smoke and sweet chaos, before throwing the stick on the cobblestone, stomping on it, and meeting Mazn'reysla's gaze.

0000000000

Maybe the moon was at an angle so it was too bright through the window. Maybe it was the squawk of the occasional pigeon that flew on the windowsill and met the assassin's keen hearing at the wrong time. Maybe it was actually the myriad number of thoughts on his mind. Regardless of the reason, Artemis Entreri was staring at the ceiling of his room completely awake.

Entreri was normally a light sleeper anyway though, of all the nights, his body screamed for rest; a conquest that was proving futile at the moment. The heaviness of sleep seemed imminent, yet his black eyes were wide open as they scanned every stone of the upper wall.

He groaned and brought himself to a sitting position in bed. He still wore his leather trousers out of habit, though his feet and torso were bare as his long, black hair settled on his slender shoulders. Entreri scanned the length of the room, idly scratching the perpetual stubble on his cheek before running the side of a finger over his goatee and gradually awakening more. He wanted to flop back down and get some much needed sleep, yet his thoughts gradually floated to the link of boar sausage he kept in the kitchen downstairs.

With another groan in protest, Entreri came to his feet and picked a white tunic off the chair next to his bed, putting it on and mentally debating whether or not he should put in the gold hoop earring that granted him Darkvision. After scanning the room more, he sighed and lifted his weapon belt from the floor. He could see fine in the dark without that item, just like he could ever since taking in that shade. Without another thought, he strapped the belt on and cautiously walked towards the door, leaning his ear against it and listening for the faintest hint of breath or movement. When he heard none, he creaked the door open and allowed his enhanced night vision to scan the hallway to make sure he wasn't being set upon. Experience had made Entreri paranoid to begin with, though in the last few hours, that paranoia had increased tenfold.

A few dimly lit torches adorned the hallway, magically programmed to light at a certain time of day, and neither that nor his keen sight found anyone in the shadows. He slowly crept out and closed the door, knocking against it with three taps of his signet ring and hearing the latch click. With a careful stride, every sense open and ready, he walked down the hallway. His keen hearing suddenly caught the sound of a male voice breathing heavily and grunting with some sort of effort, but his guard was brought down when he recognized Do'Urden's voice after a moment's thought. Entreri wanted to keep going and ignore the sound, yet his mind latched onto it and even tried to come with some reason for why it existed. Maybe the drow was exercising…with a partner. It was a thought he didn't want, yet his mind was using this as a focal point for the rest of his body to fully wake up. Fortunately he was down the hallway and into the stairwell before his brain could imagine who the drow was with.

Entreri climbed down the spiral staircase of the guild house, his mind awakening a bit more with each step on the brown stones and allowing him to focus his senses more on his surroundings. At last he reached the second floor, passing by a few suits of armor and mounted swords and at last reaching a nondescript wooden door. He put his ear to the door and listened for movement. The room was quiet, giving him the cue to turn the handle and creak it open.

The distracting advantage of dimly lit torches was absent in this space, as was any windows overlooking any light sources. The room was completely dark, yet Entreri's vision quickly adjusted to see the room in full detail. Various pots and utensils hung from a circular, wooden rack in the middle of the ceiling over a small kitchen island with a cutting board and various knives scattered over it. A large, cast iron stove took up one side while a multi-doored ice chest took up the other, the other sides lined with various wooden cabinets, marble counters, and the occasional tacky tapestry of sunflowers or a farmer's family at meal time.

The kitchen was meant to be a place where members of the guild could prepare meals, yet it often doubled as an armory, torture chamber, conference room, or closet for spell components. No one dared store their foodstuffs here unless they were locked away and heavily warded, and even those occasions were rare. Entreri was somehow aware that Jarlaxle had a cabinet to himself to store blackmail material and extra magic items he had little use for at present. Drizzt had a spot in the ice chest where he kept the small preserved body parts of various important victims; mostly ears, noses, scalps, and scraps of flesh that would be used as either spell components for his cleric or trophies meant to scare someone later. Both of these storage spaces were heavily warded and the assassin knew both his companions would be instantly aware the second any of their precious items were tampered with.

Entreri's gaze fell to the back corner of the wall beside the ice chest to a small, ugly wall adornment; a wooden plaque carved with the relief of a jovial, corpulent dragon. Its snout was turned in a goofy smirk as a forked tongue licked its maw, bulbous eyes bulging from its head while it held some sort of drumstick over its round belly. He took another cautious scan of the room while walking towards the eyesore on the wall, remembering the day six months ago when he and his drow companions were in an old lady's shop of junk decoration to collect some coin for an old mission. Drizzt and Jarlaxle were staring at this piece of slob art and making various stupid speculations as to the nature of the drumstick in the happy wyrm's claw. Both were rather surprised when Entreri paid a silver piece to have the thing carefully wrapped up and put in his hands. Neither of his companions had any clue he inspected it outside their view and found the plaque contained other secrets.

He walked closer to the decoration, took another look around, and stuck out his hand; scratching under the dragon's chin in three strokes, before patting its belly twice and then pushing in the right eye, causing the carving to sink into the wood. Dragon's stomach suddenly became flat and Entreri stuck his hand right through the wood illusion and reached into the large expanse inside, feeling around for the bundle wrapped in cloth that he gradually brought out into the open. He slowly unwrapped the red bandana and revealed a large piece of boar sausage he had pressed and cured himself after a small hunt during one of his last trips to Cormanthor. He reached into his belt and produced his hunting knife, carefully using the perpetually sharp blade to cut off a chunk of sausage and put it in his mouth. The sausage had no remote essence of any tampering, so Entreri leaned against the wall and allowed himself to relax, though his guard was perpetually up.

He took another chunk of the sweet meat while scanning the rest of the room, letting his gaze come to a few pots on the ceiling, then to the brass handles of the cabinet on the other end of the wall, then to the figure crouched behind the island doing a horrible job to stay out of his view. Entreri pretended he didn't notice the figure, taking one inconspicuous glance to not its presence, before scanning the room again and letting his glance fall on the same individual to get better details, keeping a few locks of black hair over his face to conceal his glance from the other individual. It was a male human, he noted, an aging individual in the garb of a typical gutter thief. He looked down at his snack, honing his muscles to spring at any second and readying himself for any moves by this whelp or any friends he brought with him. The assassin's glance turned again to the thief. A finely made shortsword was tightly clasped in one hand as he kept his gaze on his target and was visibly ready to spring. He clutched the sword like a trained fighter, though a fighter who was overeager for a kill and was already giving himself plenty of opportunities to make a million errors.

Entreri cut off another chunk of sausage and noticed the would-be assassin was crouching further down like a cat does when it's ready to spring on its prey. The fool erred already. The would-be assassin made one move upwards as a spray of blood shot from his neck. He looked down to see the wooden handle of a hunting knife sunk to the hilt in his throat as he became aware that his breathes were taking in blood and not air. A river of his own life essence passed over his lips as he looked up at his intended target, who was leaning against the wall and staring at him with a look of stern disapproval while casually picking a strand of meat from his teeth with a fingernail. The man made one last spring before the last of his blood spurted out and he made an unceremonious flop to the floor; his senses washed in the metallic salt of blood mixed with a hint of sweet boar sausage before they faded forever.

"Idiot," Entreri spat, kicking his would-be attacker and keeping his senses ready for any one else…

…Including the wizened hand that suddenly appeared on his tunic. A searing force slammed through his chest and Entreri caught the smell of burning flesh for one brief second. His lungs let out a quick gasp before a trail of blood and foaming saliva ran from the side of his mouth as his eyes rolled back and closed as the rest of his body relaxed against the frail body of Ranon, one of Bani Pilazi's favorite wizards.

Ranon held his victim's cooling corpse, putting a tiny hand on the side of his neck and feeling his veins completely still while giving a small chuckle: Artemis Entreri was dead. The wizard looked at his face, savoring the sight of the still dripping blood and saliva while looking at the corpse of this boastful villain in the moment of his death. The assassin's body slumped against Ranon's leg and Ranon threw him down on the floor with a thud the second he felt one of the more unpleasant effects death has on the body, the smell of which was making itself too obvious.

The wizard ignored the stench of dead human waste and took another opportunity to admire his handiwork, a quick eye glancing at the messy corpse of his partner before admiring the fallen form of the powerful assassin. He reached for his shortsword to rid the assassin of his head, only to look down and see his own, gray robes were slashed through the middle as his own intestines slowly slid out. Ranon gave out a series of choking gasps while looking down at his internal organs, his vision also catching the sight of a pair of bare, black feet beside him. His dying eyes trailed up to the black leather trousers, wrinkled white tunic, and bloody adamantine blade of a scimitar before meeting the white locks, ebony neck, and burning lavender eyes of his killer.

"A drow," he calmly gasped before a rapid movement sliced his throat, cut his legs from under him and sent him flying to the floor.

The wizard looked up and met the wide red eyes of another drow, champagne-blond hair strewn over his glistening face as he turned Entreri's body over and felt his neck for a pulse. Ranon's aged body was now a mass of flesh steeped in blood, his eyes the only thing that seemed to work, yet all he saw now was the smiling face of the other drow, who crouched down and pressed his nose against his, icy lavender orbs locked in maddening rage. His rapidly fading senses did register the feeling of his already exposed intestines being slowly ripped out as he eventually faded from the world.

Drizzt's gaze turned from the wizard's corpse to the still form of his friend, his frenzied mind focusing on Mazn'reysla as the cleric concentrated on his life force. The look on the High Priest's face betrayed some disappointment. Drizzt completely removed the wizard's entrails in one rip before throwing his body aside and coming to his knees beside Entreri. The assassin's face was locked in an expression of still calm, residual sweat caked on his brow while his mouth was a mess of foam and blood.

Mazn'reysla knew something bad had happened to the human here, the sudden vision alerted him, though he and his companion had teleported to the kitchen too late to save him. Drizzt's gaze gradually fell to his friend's tunic, noting the black handprint on his chest; a Shocking Touch spell right to the heart had done its work in an instant. The drow's body went numb and shivered as a few choking sobs managed to sneak from his throat as he shook his head: Artemis Entreri couldn't be dead, there was no way. He looked again to the High Priest, who averted his eyes though a pained look was evident on his innocent face.

Drizzt looked again at the hollow face of his former arch nemesis, the man who almost killed him and the same man who saved his life while thinking again: there is no way he can be dead.

"One burst of electricity to the heart can stop it in an instant," Drizzt suddenly recalled Artemis telling him during his assassin training. "Though few realize that one right burst can start it again."

Drizzt gasped at the realization, the last bit of hope he had for saving his close companion. He drew his shocking burst dagger and shoved Mazn'reysla aside, ripping open Entreri's tunic to fully expose the bright red mark over his heart. The drow carefully slipped the blade through his skin, feeling it scrape against the bone as it passed through his ribs. The tip gently pressed against the tough muscle of his heart as he felt the surge through the blade and withdrew it in the same second. The force arced Artemis Entreri's body as his eyes shot open and he gave out a bone-chilling gasp. His body trembled violently as he wrapped himself with his arms, the gasps taking the sound of shrill whimpers. Drizzt gave out a sobbing laugh as he inched closer to his revived friend.

Artemis managed to gain control of his surging senses for a second to regard the black figure crouched over him. His leg shot up and a pointed foot thrust directly into the sensitive flesh between the drow's legs. Drizzt gave a yelp as he instinctively clasped his searing groin before flopping to the floor. He absorbed the shock enough to see the assassin now on his knees and holding him down while aiming his jeweled dagger over him, black orbs in a look of crazed rage. Entreri remained still, his senses focusing further to meet Drizzt's calm, yet stern gaze and noting how his black handled scimitar was still in his hand. His muscles trembled further as his momentary clasp on the weapon loosened as the strength in his legs gradually faded. He collapsed down and was caught in Drizzt's arms, where he allowed himself to tremble; getting the reaction out of his system before making any real effort to focus on the world again.

Mazn'reysla leaned over him, carefully lowering his hands. The first touch was met with a violent flinch, thought the High Priest tried again and gradually laid his hands on the assassin's injured chest and closed his eyes in concentration. The drow's hands emitted a glowing warmth and Entreri felt his burned flesh cooling while the itching slice in his chest closed completely. He took a few deep breathes and allowed his nerves to calm a little.

"Say something, gods dammit," Drizzt hissed in his ear.

Entreri let out a groan and leaned his head against his companion's shoulder.

"That bastard made me shit myself," he gasped in a matter-of-fact tone.

Drizzt smiled and let out a relieved cackle. Entreri sighed and let out one of his own.

"You repeat this to Jarlaxle," Entreri said in a stronger voice, "I'll kill you."

0000000000

"Oh Maris, my dearest," Jarlaxle said, flopping down on the pink feather bed, "you are indeed skilled at what you do."

The flame-haired whore turned on her side and stared into the drow's exotic red orbs with a shrill giggle.

"Well, Master Jarlaxle," she said, rubbing his bald head with a weathered hand, "don't tell anyone else, but you are one of my favorite customers."

"Is that a fact?" he said, leaning on his elbow and admiring every line in her painted, hardened face. "I think I'm honored now."

He leaned in and gave her a long kiss before jumping up and walking to the dresser adorned in flaking gold leaf at the other end of the room. He reached for one of the many cheap crystal decanters of liquor scattered on it and popped open the stopper. He didn't check the exact content of the liquor, knowing that all were of an old variety and as the black stone around his neck protected him from any of the malicious vintages.

"Have you ever thought of going into business for yourself, mi'lady?" the mercenary said, pouring a small amount of amber liquid into a crystal glass carved with faux elven style leaves. "I truly think your talents are wasted in someone else's service."

He put the glass to his nose and breathed in the stale aroma of cheap brandy while turning around to face his lady friend. Maris was now letting out screaming gasps as her already pale face was taking a shade of blue. Jarlaxle put down the glass and carefully approached her, his elven senses at high alert; someone else was here. Maris continued to writhe on the bed, blue veins popping out in her face, which was twisted into a look of complete terror.

Jarlaxle leaned reached to the floor and picked up his trousers, putting them on and keeping his gaze on the suffocating whore while the blue robed figure of a drow suddenly appeared beside the bed. The mercenary stared at his lieutenant in shock as Kimmuriel Oblodra met his gaze with a bored expression.

"Don't be angry with me, my captain," the psionic said in a tired tone. "I am just a messenger."

"And whose message are you delivering?" Jarlaxle sneered, casually brushing a hand against his belt and feeling one of his many daggers.

Kimmuriel reached into his robes and produced an adamantine disk. Jarlaxle cautiously crept closer looking at the disk, though his concentration was distracted by the choking gasps of the whore.

"Could you take care of that, please?" he barked to his lieutenant and motioning towards the blue figure on the bed. "I would rather you keep her alive for the sake of courtesy, if that's possible."

Kimmuriel shrugged and the whore fell unconscious, though Jarlaxle could hear her breathing coming easier.

"Thank you," the mercenary captain said in an irritated tone, inching closer.

The Oblodran held the disk out for Jarlaxle to get a better look at the sign etched onto it. Jarlaxle saw the seal and groaned: his lieutenant bore the insignia representing the office of the Archmage of Menzoberranzan. Gromph Baenre wanted a word with him, though Jarlaxle did not assume that was a good thing.

"Fine," Jarlaxle said giving a reluctant nod.

He reached to the floor and picked up his tunic and put it on, followed by his boots, hat, and cape; Kimmuriel looking on impatiently. Jarlaxle then faced the psionic and put his hand out, taking the seal in his fingers and watching as the disk glowed; a glow that gradually encompassed his whole form and removed him from the room in a flash of purple light.

Kimmuriel took one disgusted look at the room, readying himself to make the portal back to his more hospitable home city. His gaze then met the unconscious whore on the bed and he stood still for a second, a smile forming on his handsome face.


	4. Mutual Benefit

**The Lesser Evil: Hooligan's Holiday**

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of R.A. Salvatore/Wizards of the Coast ©. I don't own them; I'm just examining all their possibilities.

Author's Note: This chapter also draws on the first five books of the _War of the Spider Queen _series. Alas, due to my finances, I am unable to possess _Resurrection_ at this time, so please be patient with any details I may have omitted.

**Chapter 4: Mutual Benefit**

The light from the teleport gradually faded. Jarlaxle shook off the momentary dizziness before taking the opportunity to properly focus on his new surroundings He immediately noticed he was in a large room paneled with deep purple mushroom stalks and adorned with various blue tapestries and bushes of green faerie fire. The floor almost looked like the blue green moss was a carpet, while his ears picked up the sound of a fiddle playing a screeching, mournful tune. His vision gradually came to the small, round table or carved stone in the center covered with a red embroidered table cloth and a crystal vase of fungus sprouts. He then looked to the side and saw a desiccated, animated corpse of some sort dressed in festive purple robes and playing the fiddle; its toothy, maw in almost a smile. Jarlaxle gave out a small chuckle, savoring the irony of this whole situation.

"You know how to throw a party," he said to any unknown presence in the room, which he had yet to determine was real or extra-dimensional.

"You are welcome," a familiar voice huffed.

Jarlaxle looked back to the table and met eyes with the youthful, yet ancient figure sitting in his usual stiff posture. Gromph Baenre looked a bit more tired than Jarlaxle remembered, though he could understand all the reasons why. His long white hair fell neatly over his back while two sections of hair in front were pulled together by two respective ornaments that fell down each shoulder. His black robes were just as pressed and flouncy as always, though he seemed to have added a green mantle which Jarlaxle thought was a nice touch to a normally staid outfit. What did not change was the pure aura of power that exuded from every part of his being. He was a youthful looking creature of mere flesh and blood, yet Jarlaxle never doubted that the Archmage of Menzoberranzan could tear him inside out with merely a flick of his wrist.

The Archmage motioned towards the plush, metal chair across from him that almost looked like the mating of a barstool in the Bazaar and a Matron's throne. Jarlaxle nodded in response, a dirty grin firmly planted on his face as he sat down with a sweep of his cape.

"To what do I owe the pleasure, Master Archmage?" he asked, leaning back in his chair and fixing Gromph with a smile, testing the how far his notoriously short patience could be stretched.

The Archmage, to his surprise, actually seemed to smile; though it could have been just a trick of the light. He snapped his fingers and another desiccated corpse walked from behind one of the tapestries bearing a round tray containing a bottle of mushroom wine and two stone goblets. Jarlaxle laughed, remembering the last meeting he had with this same individual. He wondered if Gromph would send one or both of his undead servitors into a ball of flames like he did last time.

The zombie hobbled over and carefully lowered the tray onto the table, rising and bowing. Gromph waved his hand in dismissal and the zombie walked back across the room. The Archmage twisted the cork from the bottle with fine, long nailed fingers before picking up the bottle and pouring an equal amount of the sweet smelling wine into both goblets before lowering the bottle with a profound thud. Jarlaxle snatched up the goblet and raised it.

"Are we drinking to anything?" he asked, his smile firmly intact.

Gromph gave a small grimace that almost resembled a smirk and raised his own cup.

"To four hundred and thirty-five years," he said, his usual stiff tone taking a slight inflection of drama while savoring the momentary twitch of the smug mercenary's smile before it was pasted back on in an instant. "To four hundred thirty-five years of successful scheming, countless bodies raked over the fires of deception, and having all of Menzoberranzan begging for mercy or allegiance with one hand in the coffers. All done by one individual whose heart was given to Lolth soon after his birth, yet for reasons that shall never be known outside the Demonweb, was brought back to the world of the living to become the consummate schemer we know today. "

Jarlaxle felt a small tightness in his chest at the reference. This meeting had already begun on the bluntest note and the only way from here was down.

"I assume I know this individual to whom you are toasting," Jarlaxle said, giving a wicked cackle and raising his glass.

"I am just experimenting with an alien custom," the Archmage replied, "I believe in some cultures, it is a tradition of sorts to celebrate the anniversary of one's birth. What is it called, a 'birthday?'"

Jarlaxle maintained his calm demeanor, yet couldn't prevent the small beads of sweat that began to form on his back. He did not at all like where this was going, neither did he like the smug look Gromph was giving him now. Normally the Archmage showed no emotions besides bored vexation, though to see him somewhat jovial was almost frightening.

Gromph threw back his glass, consuming the contents in one gulp before slamming it down with the irritated expression that made Jarlaxle a bit more comfortable.

"I did not summon you here to toast your ego," the Archmage continued in his usual strained tone. "As you should have heard already, Menzoberranzan herself has just come out of a period of strife. Shall I explain to you why? I know you have been away from the city for so long, you may not be updated on all the latest news."

Jarlaxle raised his glass in a latent toast before taking a patient sip, figuring if Gromph wanted him dead, he wouldn't have gone to the trouble of creating this place just to poison his drink.

"I have not been that far removed from home," the mercenary said calmly. "I am well aware of the unfortunate siege by the duerger and the treason of House Agrach Dyrr, all occurring while Lady Lolth took her respite."

"Even three years after the dust has settled," the archmage continued in a more matter-of-fact tone, "the chaos has yet to completely abate and remains at a level that still threatens to tear our motherland apart. It is the time when one needs to know where one stands in the grand scheme of things, especially where one stands with whom."

Jarlaxle smiled in deference, truly not liking where this was going.

"I could not agree with you more," he replied, dramatically motioning his hand over his chest. "My heart has and always will be with Menzoberranzan."

"You are so predictable," Gromph stated, "yet your usual gesturing misses the point as you missed all the fun, dear Jarlaxle. Kimmuriel masterfully dispatched Bregan D'aerthe soldiers for various tasks; in fact his new lieutenant Valas Hune played a significant role in the whole drama and had earned much respect among many circles."

"Yes, Valas; a truly able scout who risked his life on many occasions. So that is why he was immediately assigned to duties in Sshamath and anywhere else far outside the city."

Jarlaxle knew he was taking the conversation in dangerous directions, but it was a direction that made him the most comfortable.

"I will not speak for Bregan D'aerthe business," Gromph replied, "which is your job; or is it? If any other drow left his command post for seven years, he would be forgotten about, or perhaps used as target practice the second he returned to the city to collect his effects. His name would not still be toasted and feared as yours. The wonders of celebrity, I suppose. Though as you know, the masses are fickle, especially when the city is falling apart and the celebrated captain is nowhere to be found. You should have seen the look on the High Matron's face all the many times she was lamenting your absence."

Jarlaxle allowed his smile to fade, before one humble smirk reappeared as he took the bottle and poured himself another glass.

"Alas," he said in a tone of humility, bowing his head and raising the goblet, "I am respectfully speechless. My wanderlust took me in many directions, but it took me away from fearful, beautiful Menzoberranzan when she needed me most."

"Though Menzoberranzan is a forgetful mistress, as you know," Gromph said, his tone steadily darkening. "That is unless her unfaithful suitor had had his nose in more treasonous dealings; perhaps like all the rumors floating around your frequent appearances in the forest of Cormanthor, often in the camps of those who worship the Masked Lord. Don't deny you were ever there. Our eyes are everywhere and saw you cavorting with masked warriors."

"Though none of your many spies have obviously never heard the conversations that lead me to Cormanthor or given any one any knowledge of my dealings," Jarlaxle said, his voice still calm but annoyed; though masking the slight amount of fear that came from such implications reaching the ears of the higher levels.

"Oh I question nothing, Jarlaxle," Gromph continued, casually pouring another glass of wine. "You could merely be visiting old rogues, forming a new empire of mercenaries among our surface kin, or maybe staying close to Drizzt Do'Urden to exploit him for some new purpose."

Jarlaxle's visible eye narrowed slightly at the very mention of Drizzt's name. Gromph must have known much about the activities going on in Cormanthor, though he could not help but think about all the reasons the Archmage might me interested in a colony of Vhaeraun worshippers, most of them having to do with the rumors he heard about Gromph's own spiritual leanings.

"You could be dancing under the moon every night wearing nothing but a mask and declaring yourself Vhaeraun's whore and I could care less," the Archmage continued, causing Jarlaxle to hold back a small chuckle in his throat. "The very idea, however, of you consorting with the Masked God's flock could very well raise the hackles of those to whom you have made yourself close, most notably the High Matron herself. She was nearly assassinated by an admitted Vhaeraun worshipper during the war, though High Mistress Quenthal, from what I have heard, was actually trapped in the fury of the Masked Lord himself by the machinations of by a priest…in Cormanthor if I am correct, and by the efforts of the aforementioned scout who had served Bregan D'aerthe well."

Jarlaxle passed on his amused smirk while internally groaning. Valas swore to him that he had only gone to his old friend, High Priest Tzrik Jaelre, to gather information and instead was drawn into the priest's ambush. Then there was the little matter of Drizzt's allies in House Jaelre, especially Jezz the Lame; none of them ever let Jarlaxle forget that the arrival of a Bregan D'aerthe member ended with the death of their most able High Priest at the teeth and claws of the scout's party member Jeggred, Triel's draegloth son and Jarlaxle's…

"Should anyone have gone to her with these rumors spiced with a few stories involving the murders of several priestesses added for flavor," Gromph continued, breaking Jarlaxle from his momentary reverie, "I would be merciful if I poisoned that wine you drink."

Jarlaxle took a cautious sip, having to think for a second whether or not the burn in his stomach was the result of his nerves or something else. Regardless, he was in a bad position either way; Gromph was hinting at blackmail based on fabricated evidence, a popular drow practice…but for what reason? He held his glass out and sniffed its contents.

"Though I know this wine is pure," the mercenary said, a genuine smile sneaking out, "because you are not merciful."

"Nor have any of those rumors reached sensitive ears," Gromph added in almost a whisper, leaning in closer to emphasize his point, "and you may thank me for that anytime you like."

"Many thanks," Jarlaxle said, raising his glass though his tone was one of sarcastic caution. "So how much more do I owe you? I am taking the liberty to assume this meeting is a business transaction."

"Not only do you assume too much," Gromph replied, "but you also give me a great lack of credit. If I indeed wanted you dead, Jarlaxle, you would not know of my plans until the second the dagger plunged through your heart for the final time. Do I want your coffers? Hardly, I am fine with my own gained through more proper means. I do, however, ask for your loyalty, though in a mutual regard."

Jarlaxle leaned further back in his chair and swirled his goblet before taking a sip, considering the situation.

"'Mutual regard?'" Jarlaxle asked with a small laugh.

"An alliance," Gromph continued, "formed on preexisting ties and strengthened through mutual respect and mutual benefit." The Archmage paused and regarded Jarlaxle coldly, readying himself for his next statement. "Preexisting blood ties, of course."

Jarlaxle took a sip though felt ready to choke, an expression not lost on Gromph.

"The least you can do is give me a little more credit for intelligence," Gromph said in a calm, yet annoyed tone. "I hate to disappoint you, but you were not the only one who could profit from that secret. I know perfectly well we share the same mother, making us, by default, brothers though most of House Baenre would prefer to feign ignorance over the entire subject. I feel no shame in admitting I had that mindset for most of your existence, though in the past century, my attitudes have significantly changed."

"That whole business of needing to know where one stands in the scheme of things, if I understand your meaning," Jarlaxle replied, his mind still not registering bomb that had just been dropped; not because Gromph admitted he knew, but because it was a topic that was never discussed in any circles.

"It is a little more than that, though 'brotherly affection' is not a term that exists in my vocabulary," Gromph said. "I have always respected you, Jarlaxle; your sheer skill at sucking the blood from the city's most powerful houses as you aid their enemies in destroying them is one for which I do admit more than a bit of envy, though it is more recent events that have turned my attention towards the true needs of House Baenre. Triel is still powerful, though she is no less of a mere figurehead than she was after our mother met her…tragic demise. There are even those who doubt her favor with Lolth. As for Quenthal, she returned from her quest even madder than she was before; to the point where she is barely able to function for herself, let alone perform her duties. Every other member of our line, as always, is more content watching from the sidelines while ripping up everyone else regardless of whether their backs are turned or not. Now where does that leave the First House: in the hands of the lowly males of course."

Jarlaxle managed a smirk, suddenly understanding the full meaning of this whole discussion.

"As for poor Dantrang and Bergin'yon, well, your companions truly have their work cut out for them don't they?" Gromph continued, eliciting a nervous chuckle from Jarlaxle; he had truly done his research. "I still retain my position after many pathetic attempts on my life, and you survived an uprising and have gone on to rule your own various empires. We truly done well for ourselves, haven't we?"

"Woe for House Baenre when the males look at the throne," Jarlaxle said. He knew full well Gromph had just put him in intimate confidence, a position he found somewhat unnerving; a position he cemented by setting up a multitude of traps around the mercenary should he decide to profit on this information. The ultimate trap was too obvious.

"Woe to House Baenre, indeed," Gromph replied with a smirk.

"So what part will I play in this little alliance…brother?" the mercenary said with a slight sneer greeted only with an annoyed eyeroll. "I doubt I shall be the next lichdrow of Argach Dyrr."

"No," Gromph replied, showing his ire at that last reference. "I would prefer you take the same role you do with everyone else, though the position could prove a bit more secure and the rewards will be significantly greater. After all, should anyone decide to press the matter, you certainly have a claim for the position of secondboy, though progress is always slow."

Jarlaxle widened his eyes in quiet anticipation as he felt the small bits of stubble on the back of his neck rise. Gromph reached under the table and produced a wide, yet shallow box made from cheap metal. Jarlaxle gave him a bored look that rapidly brightened to one of awe when his brother opened the box; inside was filled to the lip with small, black diamonds, the finest and most valuable gem in all of Faerûn. The worth of the entire box had to be in the millions. The mercenary carefully reached a hand out and gently lifted a few diamonds, examining their fine quality.

"Feel free to appraise them more carefully," the Archmage said.

Jarlaxle obliged, lifting one to his eye, shifting his eyepatch from one eye to the other a few times before looking carefully at the cut and color of the gem. He took a careful look at a few of them before replacing them all in the box with a satisfied nod. Not only were they real, but the finest and most valuable quality he had ever seen. Gromph gave Jarlaxle a smirk in response and closed the box, leaving it on the table and observing (and savoring) his bastard brother's lingering gaze of longing.

"This is the final payment for you to divide amongst yourself and any lackeys you bring along on your first mission under my employ," the Archmage said.

"A very fair offer," Jarlaxle said, putting his hands behind his head, trying to shut out any misgivings he had about this whole affair. "Now…brother, what services will you have us perform?"

"I am sending you on a hunting mission," Gromph replied, "though a hunt and capture, for I would prefer that your quarry remain alive to serve my purposes. Tell me…brother, have you ever heard of the rare and infamous tradition of the Ur-Priesthood?"

Jarlaxle searched his memory banks for that familiar name and gave a small smile.

"I have heard of them in legend, or more appropriately, warning," the mercenary replied. "From what I recall, the Ur-Priests are anti-clerics; the highest blasphemers who will steal spells from the gods to use against them. All deities and clerics are their mortal enemies."

"Very good," Gromph said, "your information is relatively accurate. You wouldn't happen to have gained your knowledge from Sshamath, would you?"

"I get my sources everywhere."

"Fair enough." Gromph replied with a knowing sneer. "My knowledge is that the City of Dark Weavings has become quite a gathering place for these heretics."

"A city of mages where arcane knowledge rules in the place of any deity," Jarlaxle said, noticing the mildly uncomfortable expression on the archmage's face, "now why would they ever think to gather there?"

"It did originally start as a place of refuge for a few drow malcontents who cursed Lolth yet were never satisfied unless they rebelled against the other deities. Then the network began to build to the point where Ur-Priests of any race will use Sshamath as a resource, acting under the guise of any other student of the arcane seeking knowledge. None of them meet in any great number for obvious reasons, though they regularly communicate through magical means, sharing information or organizing minor uprisings; the occasional drow patrol that goes missing, information reaching the wrong place at the wrong time, minor pranks of that nature.

"About a month ago, word spread through my various arcane contacts that one of the most powerful of the Ur-Priests stopped answering his communications. He never showed up at any meeting places and even his minions went missing. No one thought anything of that at the time, until reports from surface patrols started including details about panic from the local villagers, someone destroying their temples."

Jarlaxle kept his cool, though his skin crawled.

"This malcontent wouldn't happen to go by the name of Moril by any chance?" the mercenary said.

Gromph gave an impressed smile.

"I assumed a man in your business would be at least somewhat familiar with the name. Moril, from what I understand, was a recluse; staying in his multitude of hideouts around Sshamath and answering only through minions and magical communication. No one in my contacts even knows what race he is. He would make rare personal appearances, though he always wore full robes and a full mask decorated with the same markings as his official seal."

Gromph reached into his robes and produced a metal disk attached to a black ribbon and put it on top of the chest. Jarlaxle leaned in and took a good look at the black and white enamel in the shape of a harlequin's face; eyes painted in black diamonds, mouth turned up in a smirk on one side and down in a grimace on the other.

"I have seen that seal emblazoned on wanted posters," Jarlaxle said, eyeing the emblem carefully. "Moril had become rather popular, or should I say, rather hated."

"I am sure you have heard of his methods: using special alchemical components and having them transported…"

"…By tumbling clowns who explode at a certain time and leave nothing but destruction in their wake. Not only have I heard about Moril's methods, I have witnessed their effects; Gond's House of Wonders in one of my posts, as you must know, met that fate just a few hours ago."

Jarlaxle could have sworn he saw a look of momentary confusion on Gromph's face. Either the Archmage was perturbed that his plan was so easily noticed, or he had no idea about the latest attack at all. Jarlaxle made no betrayals of noticing this and only continued listening.

"So you are well aware of what we are dealing with," Gromph continued. "As you know, Moril has amassed many followers, though most are drawn into his web by his astounding prowess in the school of Enchantment."

"And you wish for me and my associates to find this powerful Ur-Priest," Jarlaxle said with a tiny hint of sarcasm, "whonever appears in any physical form other than a whimsical mask, yet ensnares mere mortals with his powers; at least those who can get through the masses of paladins and bounty hunters who are already racing to catch his hide first."

"Those paladins and bounty hunters, however, do not have access to strong amulets to deflect his powers; nor have they been able to catch one of his duerger slaves as returned to Sshamath to collect some of his master's effects. I also doubt that those paladins and bounty hunters had an associate among the ilithids who was able to peel the whelp's mind layer by layer and locate the official headquarters of the mere mortal who calls himself Moril."

Jarlaxle sipped his wine and tapped his fingers dramatically over the table. Gromph stared at him waiting for any reaction.

"Moril is a reclusive figure that uses many decoys," the Archmage continued. "Though the real man is easily drawn out by anything he considers a great threat to his power. If he even has the slightest notion you are on his tail, he will make his presence known. You will be ill-matched against the Ur-Priest and his followers alone, but I am certain the human and the Do'Urden renegade will be more than enough manpower; though you may want to recruit that Sshemlet heretic for extra magical support."

Jarlaxle allowed himself a resigned sigh. Not only did Gromph know of his involvement with Drizzt, he also knew about the frequent presence of Drizzt's High Priest. It was a situation that he cared not to think on at all and instead accept the reality. Gromph then reached into his robes and produced another box, this one much smaller that the first, laying it on the table and opening the lid. Jarlaxle observed a few different boxes, as well as a modest, leather tube tucked at the very back. Gromph reached in a produced a large, velvet bag; opening it to reveal several varieties of jewels and many pieces of gold and platinum.

"I will give you this now," the Archmage said, "for any expenses you may occur on the journey; supplies, tribute, any other reasons." He put the bag back in the box and produced a small case lined in blue velvet, opening it to reveal four polished black stones at the end of their respective silver chains. "These are amulets that will guard against greater enchantments, far more powerful than that eyepatch you wear. There is one for you and three other party members."

Gromph casually closed the box and place it back with the others, producing a wider one and opening it to reveal a silver, jewel encrusted…collar?

"When you finally reach Moril," he said, "clamp this around his neck. It will immediately disrupt his neural waves and render him unconscious for as long as it remains on. The effect will be instantaneous. Keep that seal Kimmuriel gave you; as soon as you have Moril, use it to call to me and I will bring you straight away to Menzoberranzan." He put the box back in and clasped the ends of the leather tube, raising it slightly to get his brother's attention. "I do not need to tell you what this contains. If you so much as lay an eye on the parchment on which this map is written, I will consider you bound by our agreement."

Jarlaxle looked at the tube, feeling a small surge of excitement mingling with the thousand cries of warning flying through his brain; this was too easy, such a cruel creature was being far to generous for this to be legitimate. This was, however, Gromph. The mercenary swirled his goblet, giving himself a moment to absorb the reality, seeing more advantage in a situation into which essentially been trapped. He grinned and raised his glass.

"To mutual benefit," he toasted, his tone revealing a bit of resignation.

Gromph managed a small smirk. Jarlaxle and Gromph locked glares for a second, passing along so much information between them without saying a word. The Archmage nodded his head slowly and twisted one end of the tube.

000000000

A part of Drizzt hoped he had gained unquestioned entrance to The Black Trencher because of his race, though it may have been because he was already well known as one of the Bani Pilazi Guild's most accomplished assassins, though the most likely reason was that The Black Trencher was already a rowdy, decrepit, ask-no-questions tavern. Regardless, Shaglat, the orc bartender, merely gave a nod when the two dark elves appeared on the back doorstep dragging along a poor creature buried in rags and smelling like his own feces. Shaglat did receive a few gold pieces tossed against his scaly head as the surly looking warrior and his cloaked companion walked through the door and shoved their way into a few empty rooms upstairs.

The Black Trencher was by no means the fanciest watering hole in town, though some of the rooms had the luxury of small, metal bath tubs that looked more like large stew pots that could actually be filled with tepid water for a few extra silver pieces. For Drizzt's purposes, it was perfect.

He propped himself up to a half sit on the musty smelling bed, hoping no splinters would seep into his scalp after he simply leaned his head back against the splintered post to gulp down another mouthful of abysmally cheap bourbon; it tasted like a bad alchemy experiment and made his head hurt just smelling it, though it would do. He would occasionally pick up the sound of a gloriously familiar voice in the next room grunting and swearing at his attending cleric, though Drizzt tried not to focus on this too much. Artemis was alive and, judging by the last time he heard Mazn'reysla called a "pig fucker," he was feistier than usual, though Drizzt did not want to think on the exact reasons why.

It was one thing to come close to death, Drizzt thought, a state he was beginning to understand too well. To actually come back from death itself, however, was a different matter entirely.

The sounds in the other room eventually quieted, leaving Drizzt alone with his thoughts and his liquor; the latter making the former a little quieter as well. Drizzt's thoughts were interrupted by a small press on the bed. He looked over to see Azril, Mazn'reysla's demonic feline familiar, sitting next to him with a look of impatient beckoning. He smiled, reaching out a hand to scratch her under the chin. Azril gave a purr that almost sounded like a tiny rumble from a distant part of the Abyss. She leaned over into his face, her red eyes boring into him, before a fork tongue stuck out and liked the end of his nose. He laughed and looked to the side, not surprised to see Mazn'reysla right beside the bed. He smiled and came to a sit, scratching the cat's head and awaiting his first report.

"How is he?" Drizzt asked in a dour tone, looking up and meeting Mazn'reysla's beaming gaze.

"Alive," the cleric said calmly, "otherwise as well as he can be."

Drizzt gave a stiff nod that he knew communicated so much more to his partner. The cat ran from his side and gave a flying leap straight into Mazn'reysla's arms.

"You are aware your debt to him is repaid," the cleric continued, scratching behind her ear. "I know that means something to you." He paused, only to see Drizzt take another long swig and savor the burn. "I healed the rest of his wounds, and stood in the hall as he bathed himself, though I could have sworn he was scouring his skin raw. I just put him in bed now."

"Though I doubt he sleeps," Drizzt replied.

"Not likely," Maz replied simply. "I would have patience with the human; I am sure he has seen things no mortal should be allowed to see and return to even think on them let alone report."

Drizzt took another long swig, realizing he was feeling only slightly relaxed after consuming a quarter of the large bottle.

"Who does he worship?" Maz asked hesitantly.

Drizzt gave him a curious glance.

"I mean," the cleric continued, "what god or goddess does he call friend?"

"None," Drizzt replied without hesitation.

Maz nodded; giving a small, mischievous smile a small child does when he has a secret and wants to tell. Drizzt learned long before now that it was better not to question the High Priest's mannerisms, though he himself did not care to think on any of the implications his answer had.

"I assume you are taking your Reverie in Baldur's Gate tonight," Drizzt said.

Maz slowly shook his head and noted Drizzt's small scowl.

"The human's healing is his own project for the moment and I have matters to attend to in Cormanthor," Mazn'reysla replied. "Though I have had a rather lovely evening."

Drizzt nodded in understanding, knowing everything he said was the reality. Mazn'reysla paused before Drizzt for a second, and then ran his fine fingers through the fallen ranger's hair. Drizzt merely kept a watchful gaze on him, savoring the massage in his scalp. The High Priest then leaned down and licked the tip of his nose before withdrawing his hand. He gave a curt nod before evaporating into the air. Drizzt crashed back down on the pillow with a groan. This night had been too much.

He gradually came to a sit and swung his legs over the bed, willing himself to stand and walk to the rickety chair beside an equally unstable wooden table on the other side of the room. Drizzt sat down and took one more swig of the bottle; not surprised at all to see a brown-skinned hand snatch the bottle away. He looked up and saw Artemis Entreri standing over him, his face in a look of mild scolding wilted by a profound tiredness.

The assassin wore a set of clothes Mazn'reysla usually kept in a small bag of holding in his robes that were slightly baggy and wrinkled; a pair of black wool trousers and a black linen tunic. All he needed were the boots, cape, and the mask and he could look like a human attempting to imitate a priest of Vhaeraun. Entreri's already hardened face was more drawn than usual, making him look more aged than he was an hour ago. Dark circles formed around his dark eyes while his normally pale skin was almost a sick white tinged with his natural tan complexion. Drizzt did notice his black hair was pulled back into its usual ponytail, which still bore a sheen of water.

The assassin then raised the bottle to his lips and threw it back, taking many desperate gulps and seemingly unaffected by the alcohol content. He lowered the bottle and wiped his lips with the back of his hand, slamming it on the table and causing it to wobble slightly.

"You are a true connoisseur of fine spirits," the assassin said dourly, crashing into a sitting position on the floor and reclining against the wall.

Drizzt gave his friend a smile tinged with a look of concern.

"How are you feeling?" the drow asked.

"Like a bed in an orc's whorehouse," the assassin replied, rubbing his temples.

"As opposed to feeling nothing at all," Drizzt said, leaning down and grabbing the bottle.

Entreri said nothing, though the very fact he gave a painful sigh showed he wasn't entirely shutting himself out. Drizzt was almost tempted to ask what the Otherside was like, though he didn't want to know himself, at least the part that Artemis likely saw.

"So you're back from the dead," Drizzt said, swirling the contents of the bottle. "Does this mean that you are a changed man: a foul villain who has seen the beyond and now arrives back on Prime with a desire to mend his ways?"

Entreri's face bore a blank look, though it twisted into a wicked smirk.

"You mean run out to the nearest goodly priest and bend over while crying for mercy?" he said, a statement that sent a small chill through Drizzt's spine. "Very unlikely."

"I am very glad to hear that," Drizzt replied as the bottle was snatched from his hand before he even realized Entreri had gotten up. "I would hate for you to turn the paladin and dedicate yourself to goodness."

"And if I did?" he asked, resuming his casual position.

"I would have to hunt you down and kill you of course," Drizzt replied without missing a beat.

Entreri smiled and raised the bottle.

"To evil then," he said with a grin, taking a swig and handing the bottle to Drizzt.

"To evil," he replied with a small purr, throwing the bottle back and slamming it on the table.


	5. First Strands of the Web

**The Lesser Evil: Hooligan's Holiday**

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of R.A. Salvatore/Wizards of the Coast ©. I don't own them; I'm just examining all their possibilities.

Author's Note: I would like to give credit to WitchWolf, whose feedback on many aspects of characterization greatly inspired a section of this chapter. I'll also give a nod to euphorbic for one "stinking" detail that I couldn't rersist putting in.

**Chapter 5: First Strands of the Web**

Gromph wouldn't go through all that trouble simply to transport me to the six hundred and sixty-sixth layer of the Abyss, Jarlaxle thought with a small smirk.

Regardless, it was still too late to do anything about it. He was already through the portal that Gromph promised would take him back to his companions, though that one statement had so many meanings considering the source.

Regardless, the flash of light and sudden pull was the same and Jarlaxle's destination would be determined in a short moment. The light faded and the mercenary thankfully found himself in a place that did not involve webs, unless he considered the ones that lined the corners of the ceiling in this long hallway. He looked around, regarding the splintered paneled walls and cheap red carpet that ran down the center, not too successfully covering ancient bloodstains and recent spilled ale. Jarlaxle had been to the Black Trencher enough times to recognize its charm, though he had no idea why in the Abyss he would be sent here, unless…

Jarlaxle had ignored the steady rise of laughter from behind the door closest to him, though he suddenly decided to focus his hearing a little. The voices of the two males in the other room became exceedingly familiar, a situation that sent no small chill down his spine; Gromph knew exactly where his companions were located. He could find them and use them as collateral if he chose. It was a thought that both scared and infuriated him. Drizzt sounded like he had put away a few drinks already, though Artemis actually sounded somewhat…jovial?

He moved towards the door and nudged it open; readying his own weapons should the surprise not be greeted well. Drizzt and Entreri were both sitting in wooden chairs, Drizzt's looking a bit sturdier than his companion's, around a rickety table, playing cards fanned out in their hands next to small piles of gold pieces. One half empty bottle of some spirit, whose sent wafted across the room, rested on the table between two glasses, while two more lay empty on the floor. The drow sat back in his chair, obviously relaxed, while the human was leaning heavily on the table; a huge smile on his face that made Jarlaxle more than a little disturbed.

"Good morning, Jarlaxle," Drizzt said, looking down at his hand though obviously sensing the presence of his third companion. "I see the Pink Pearl became too rowdy. Care to lose some coin?"

"Speak for yourself," Entreri muttered with a goofy laugh.

"Is it morning already," Jarlaxle asked, taking a look out the hole in the wall that qualified for a window and indeed saw the sun a small ways up from the horizon.

Jarlaxle shrugged and looked over to the other two, noticing how his human companion leaned heavily on the table and dropped the card he was trying to arrange. The mercenary walked closer with raised eyebrows. Artemis Entreri was a creature of strict personal discipline; the very notion of consuming any substance in excess was a normally a despicable concept to him. He even regularly gave Drizzt dirty looks for merely puffing on cloves, yet here he was now taking another long drink from his snifter.

"I would make a comment on how this is a typical, boring night for both of you," the mercenary said, walking closer to the table, "though I must commend Master Artemis for learning to relax a little." He ended the sentence by motioning to the bottle on the table.

"Oh, that," Entreri said, his voice taking a noticeable slur as he lazily pointed to the bottle. "Well, I figured: you're only supposed to die once. Now when you die and that doesn't work, you're alive again. So, what the Hells, might as well enjoy yourself at least once before you go for the last time."

Drizzt gave a dirty chuckle while regarding the various strains of complete annoyance and profound confusion that ran through his drow companion's small smile.

"Did I miss something?" the mercenary asked with a wide, uncomfortable grin before putting his arms out and leaning on the table.

"Do you want to tell him the story or should I," Drizzt said, arranging his hand and looking over at the drunk human.

"What story?" Jarlaxle asked, his tone more irritated as he actually became somewhat concerned as to where this was leading.

"You weren't there, remember?" Entreri replied, trying to arrange his own hand with some difficulty before pointing at Drizzt. "You and your…priest were upstairs doing that which I don't want to think on, while I was downstairs minding my own business, getting some food, and some idiot decided to spring on me. Well, he died… then I died." Entreri's expression soured as he leaned further on the table muttering "stinking wizard."

"Well my…priest," Drizzt added with a nod of deference, "knew something was not right in the kitchen, so we teleported down to see the wizard in question, our old not so warm buddy Ranon." Drizzt looked over to Jarlaxle, whose eyes slightly widened at the mention. "The wizard lost the use of his intestines the second he pulled out his sword to finish his job. Then I saw our companion here lying on the ground, the special recipient of a shocking spell right to the chest. Now, the walking corpse himself taught me that when the heart is stopped with electricity, it can be started in the same manner."

He motioned towards the shocking dagger on his belt. Entreri stopped fiddling with his cards to glare at the drow.

"Though you did stab me," he said, trying to sound as menacing as possible.

"You're alive," Drizzt responded in the same tone.

Jarlaxle ignored the whole exchange while trying to make sense of what he just heard; information that could mean so many rather not pleasant things on every angle. The very fact Artemis Entreri was intoxicated meant that something out of the ordinary happened. The mercenary raised a hand and gently pinched the point of Drizzt's ear and pulled it upwards, enough to get his attention and inspire him to rise. The young drow fanned his cards on the table and stood up.

"Bastard," Entreri barked, throwing down his own meager hand with a force that pushed a few cards from the table. He regarded he mess briefly before clumsily pouring himself another glass, spilling a few drops as he watched Jarlaxle lead Drizzt out of the room, though leaving the door slightly ajar and remaining within sight.

Jarlaxle looked back through the crack in the door. He knew the human was listening in, though he didn't care. Drizzt looked back and saw Entreri's hand crawl over and steal a few of his coins before laughing and turning his attention back to Jarlaxle's profoundly irritated expression.

_I want the story from someone who is only slightly intoxicated now_, the mercenary signed in drow hand code, keeping his hand low. _What in the Nine Hells happened?_

_He told you everything we know_, Drizzt signed back with an uncomfortable smile. _I am sure you already know of the previous attempts on his life. Well, they were successful this time. When Mazn'reysla and I found him he was sprawled out on the floor; no pulse, no breathing, my cleric ready to say at least some words in parting. And I brought him back._

Jarlaxle stared at him, red eyes boring through lavender, while his head had yet to wrap around all the possibilities.

_Go to the guild house, if you don't believe me_, Drizzt continued, his smile relaxing. _I am sure someone is talking even if they have cleaned up the mess_.

Jarlaxle sighed and nodded. He did want to return to the guild, yet he had no reason to doubt Drizzt's story, especially given their companion's current condition and all the implications this one incident had. If Entreri was thought to be dead, their involvement in the guild was over. If they figured Entreri was alive, they would still hunt him down, especially given the added detail of the killing of Pilazi's favorite wizard. Pilazi already figured the drow for Entreri's handlers or minions. Any fate Entreri suffered would reflect back on them, though not if some subtle maneuvering could be done.

_He can't stay in Baldur's Gate_, Drizzt signed with a resigned expression.

_Are you sober enough to take him to Cormanthor? _Jarlaxle signed back. _That may be the ideal place to regroup and come up with a plan. Meanwhile, I will go back to the guild and assess the damage._

_Not even an issue_, Drizzt signed back with his usual cocky smirk.

Jarlaxle nodded and shoved him into the room.

"I will meet you there," the mercenary said out loud, tipping his hat and walking down the hallway.

Entreri clumsily rose, losing his footing once before becoming steady.

"Where's he going?" the assassin asked, pointing in his direction.

"Not where we're going," Drizzt replied, reaching into his belt.

Entreri immediately put a hand to his sword, though his gait relaxed slightly when he saw the drow produce a knotted, black want that he had seen on many occasions; his teleportation wand.

"I think you're too drunk to use that thing," Entreri said.

"I think you're too drunk to question that," Drizzt replied, lightly grabbing his shoulder, saying a command word, and tapping himself.

A flash of light later, Drizzt reoriented himself to look around the inside of his treehouse. The aroma of sweet pines wafted through the door as a crack of hazy sunlight came through. He looked over to see Entreri on his knees; the jolt from the teleportation a little too much for him. Drizzt hurriedly pulled a green porcelain bowl from the top of his table and put in on the floor under the assassin, who immediately heaved into it and let out a groan.

"Get it all out now or you'll feel worse later," Drizzt said, unfastening his weapons belt and placing it against the wall.

Entreri came to a sit, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve, his hand trembling and eyes vacant. Drizzt looked down at him, the groaned and grabbed one arm, gently guiding him to his feet and practically throwing him on the cot. The assassin flopped down hard, smacking his wrist against the floor and letting out a loud curse, though he flexed it with no trouble.

"You are going to sleep it off," Drizzt said, pointing at him.

Entreri did not respond. Instead he rolled to his side and closed his dark eyes. Drizzt kicked off his boots and picked the bowl off the floor, taking a peek inside and cringing before setting it roughly on the table. He looked down at his companion and saw his eyes were still closed, breath coming slowly, yet steadily; fast asleep at last.

"Just don't die on me now, _abbil_," Drizzt barked, conjuring a small stir from the assassin's wrist that looked like an attempt at an obscene gesture.

The drow smirked and pulled out a long, thick cushion from out of the corner; laying it out somewhat neatly against the wall and plopping to a rough sit on the soft green velvet and down. He leaned his back against the wall and closed his eyes, sinking into a peaceful Reverie that was a bit overdue and completely welcome given the circumstances.

Drizzt was deep in his trance, though he was semi-aware of the delicate brush against his shoulder from what felt like a soft hand. He slowly opened his eyes to a room washed in shadows, though he thought nothing of it at the time. Instead his hazy consciousness was aware of the small figure curling up next to him on the cushion, face buried into his shoulder and gently nibbling his collarbone while champagne-blond hair flowed across his chest. Drizzt closed his eyes and gently wrapped his arms around Mazn'reysla's shoulders; savoring the softness of his black silk tunic before running a hand through that soft hair. The flow of passion was soft at first, though became steadily stronger with every nibble. His partner's lips trailed up to his neck, then his jaw, before enveloping his own. Drizzt let his mind flow with this moment, embracing Mazn'reysla and kissing him softly before guiding him down on the cushion.

Mazn'reysla's lips trailed back to his neck, where he nibbled the flesh a bit harder. Drizzt savored the momentary pain, which became slightly stronger and sent waves through his body. Drizzt's hands snuck beneath his partner's tunic and caressed the soft skin underneath, trailing downward to his lower back. Mazn'reysla's hands also came underneath Drizzt's tunic, fingernails raking hard down his back, giving Drizzt a sharper ache than he was used to, yet was no less exciting. Drizzt kissed him back with a fury, biting his lower lip hard, though surprised that no blood flowed out. Mazn'reysla's lips trailed back to his jaw, then brushed roughly up his face before he nibbled his earlobe.

"You're awful excitable," Drizzt whispered.

"I just want it filthy, lover," a husky, otherworldly voice cooed in his ear, yet sounded like it was a loud echo going through the planes; a voice that was familiar yet was nothing like Mazn'reysla's.

A sharp jolt passed down Drizzt's spine as he looked into his partner's…glowing gold eyes. His body went numb as he let go and stared at the familiar figure underneath him, whose hair and eyes were fading to a shade of blue as he let out a chilling cackle. Drizzt moved his lips as if to speak, but found his throat practically closed to speech as he sat and regarded his deity.

Vhaeraun stared at him, then pulled him in for a wet kiss on his forehead before shoving him hard against the wall and coming to his feet.

"My Lord," Drizzt said as casually as possible, rubbing his sore back and nodding in honor, "to what do I owe the pleasure?"

Vhaeraun smoothed out the wrinkles on his black tunic, letting his velvet cape flow a little grander as his eyes locked on Drizzt before sweeping around the treehouse. Drizzt sat in both awe and fear at the sudden appearance of the majestic figure of Vhaeraun in his entire masked, black-clad splendor. He had only encountered Vhaeraun's avatar once, yet the experience was a crucial moment in his life. Now his deity was before him now, though he senses a stronger power in this figure than the avatar he met a year ago.

"Drizzt Do'Urden, the fallen hero of the realms," the Masked Lord practically announced. "He who now calls himself 'The Rogue Prince;' striking fear and swords into the hearts of those who truly annoy him all the while claiming a nice horde of coin and flesh; all the while making himself the champion of disgruntled drow brats everywhere. I say, we have done well for ourselves, haven't we?"

Drizzt wasn't sure if he should take this as a compliment or a ridicule; though considering the source it was likely both.

"I will never forget out last visit," Vhaeraun continued, stepping closer to him and crouching down. "You were just a cocksure little boy who was practically pissing himself at the notion of my mere presence; this nice façade over the flowing uncertainty and chaos that had become your existence. Now look at you; I see little has changed. The only difference now is that you have a little more sense of direction, a little more mind you."

"I owe that last part to you," Drizzt added, leaning comfortably against the wall and plastering on a cocky smile.

"And I am not unappreciative," Vhaeraun replied. "In fact, I am rather pleased: you have made yourself such a nice force of chaos in my name. My interest in you has not changed, though my expectations are becoming a little higher. I have watched you have your playtime for the past year, playtime that has accomplished so much; though I am actually giving you a little job now."

"Name it," Drizzt said in the calmest, most self-assured voice he could muster, "it shall be done."

Vhaeraun looked at him and smiled, a hand shooting out and grabbing Drizzt by the throat and lifting him against the wall. The hand was deceptively fair, yet Drizzt still felt like his throat was about to be caved in. The Masked Lord loosened his grasp allowing his mortal follower air, though keeping the knuckle of his forefinger against his Adam's apple.

"I'm sorry, but I just have to savor that aura about you," Vhaeraun said with a wide grin. "You have always been so proud, so sure of yourself, and so completely naïve about the forces around you that could crush your skeleton into powder yet you look on with a smile. You remind me of me when I was just a little godling trying to rip out my father's fair, golden hair at the roots while making a scourge out of the legs of my mother's favorite spider minion."

"You must have been a cute little kid," Drizzt managed to gasp out.

"The biggest difference between us is," Vhaeraun continued, whispering in his ear, "you are a bit more breakable."

The Masked Lord smiled and slammed him on the floor. Drizzt let out a momentary cry as a surge of pain flowed from the new bruise on his side. The pain faded and Drizzt slowly came to his elbows.

"Play time's over, little boy," Vhaeraun said. "You have no idea, but you are about to be dragged into the web of a few nasty spiders and I'm not talking about my mother…perhaps. If you go in blindly, you will be torn apart and I really don't want to see that…yet. The bait is out there and it comes in a pleasing form. I want you to take this bait, yet watch for the sticky strands of the web. That is where you will do your duty to me."

"What duty, my Lord?" Drizzt replied in a more respectful tone.

"You will collect a few debts owed to me by a few different people. As for the 'who' and 'how much,' you are smart enough to learn that for yourself. The rest I leave up to you, though I might give a little aid if I feel generous."

The Masked God took a few steps backwards, eyes still locked on Drizzt, though they occasionally turned back to the sleeping figure of Artemis Entreri on the cot behind him. Drizzt felt a small burn in his stomach as his god's attention turned more to the human. Vhaeraun's hand casually moved to the pommel of his black shortsword, Nightshadow before looking at Drizzt, who glared at him. Vhaeraun's hair and eyes faded to green as he looked at Drizzt, then Entreri, then back at Drizzt. The Masked Lord's hand slowly came off his weapon and reached down, grabbing a thin chunk of black hair that had come loose from the assassin's ponytail and caressing it for a second before ripping it out.

Entreri let out a loud yelp, looking up at the black clad, green haired drow standing over him; his hazy mind knowing something was amiss. The rest of his being, however, felt the shadows wafting from his form, the rest of his soul surging with the otherworldly energy coming from this mere drow. The drow smiled, putting a finger to his lips in a motion of silence. Entreri's head became light as the heaviness of sleep fell over him once again.

Vhaeraun looked again at Drizzt, who came to a sit with only a tiny amount of pain and regarded his partner carefully; seeing his slow, yet steady breath and watching him stir a few times, knowing he was only asleep.

"You don't think I would kill him do you?" Vhaeraun asked before letting out a piercing cackle. "No, I like this human too much."

Drizzt let out a few deep breaths, trying to calm himself down. Vhaeraun walked over to him and patted his shoulder.

"You know what you need to do next," the Masked God said. "We will meet again."

Vhaeraun put his finger to his lips again. Drizzt's eyes became heavier as a shadowy fog consumed his vision and enveloped his being in a deep, peaceful Trance.

The smell of chewed mint leaves broke the fog first, yet it was the itching tickle of a fine fingertip scratching under his chin that fully caused his eyes to shoot open and see Jarlaxle leaning in to his face, pressing his nose against his with an annoyed smirk.

"Isn't it funny how the more you drink the deeper the Trance gets," the mercenary said, grabbing Drizzt's hair and throwing his head back a bit, sending a small, dull ache through his skull he responded to with a groan.

Jarlaxle came to his feet and allowed Drizzt a clear look at the bed, where Entreri had propped himself on his elbows, his face taking a slight tinge of green as he squinted his eyes at the bright light coming from the window, the first touches of…sunset? Drizzt slowly came to his knees to get a better look at the glowing orange orb beginning its descent into the trees. When they first arrived in Cormanthor the sun had risen but an hour before, now it was setting. Drizzt rubbed his aching head. He knew he drank quite a bit the night before, but this was entirely different; there were other factors at work here. His train of thought was broken by the creak of the cot followed by a muted groan as Artemis managed to sit up and cover his face with his hands before parting them slightly to give Drizzt a weak glare.

"Why in the Nine Hells did you let me do that?" the assassin growled, his face in a look of complete irritation, though Drizzt could only guess it was more in irritation with himself.

"Now, now, children," Jarlaxle said, plopping on the cot next to Entreri and patting him on the knee with a huge grin, "we only have ourselves to blame, now don't we?"

"Jarlaxle, I assume taunting us isn't your only purpose here," Drizzt said, stretching his legs out and putting his hands behind his head. He reclined his body, only to meet with some resistance in the form of a dull ache in his side; an ache whose presence alone conjured a small chill.

"Yes, Jarlaxle, tell me," Entreri said, throwing his hands into his lap, "is old man Pilazi hunting for me or my corpse?"

"Well, to be frank, he is hunting you," the mercenary replied, his tone turning a bit more serious. I went to the guild house and word has quickly spread of the unfortunate death of Ranon, Bani Pilazi's most trusted friend and advisor."

"Horse shit," Drizzt muttered.

"Yes, but it does give him an excuse to set up a reward of eight thousand gold pieces to any member of the guild who does manage to turn our human friend into a corpse for tearing out the wizard's entrails," Jarlaxle continued with a sigh before looking directly at Drizzt, "though judging by what Ranon's remains looked like when they were dragged out of the kitchen, I can only guess that added detail was yours while the simple hunting knife thorough the throat of Pilazi's personal assistant was more Master Entreri's style."

"Eight thousand gold pieces," Entreri muttered with a small grimace, "is that all I'm worth to those imbeciles? Pilazi and his brat are indeed fools"

"And there is also a reward of five thousand gold pieces to anyone who manages to capture Entreri's drow apprentice for an added flavor," Jarlaxle added. "You really need to do better for yourself, Drizzt; I remember Matron Baenre's last offer was around a million."

"Your loss, I guess," Drizzt added with a smile. "I assume your holdings have not been touched."

"You would assume wrong," Jarlaxle said with another sigh. "Apparently the wrong people have associated me with the wrong crowd. I do not have a price on my head, but I do have many uncomfortable eyes on me now and much of my own stores have been tampered. I am sure the price on my head is coming soon."

Drizzt and Entreri looked at each other, trading doubts. The idea any of these inept humans would even touch an iota of his holdings was preposterous. He was already up to something.

"So where does that leave us now?" Entreri asked, rubbing his temples as another ache surged through his skull.

"The clear situation is that if any of us even set an open foot in Baldur's Gate, we are inviting trouble of some kind," the drow mercenary said. "Given what has happened to one of us already, I would think it wise not to scoff too much at their capabilities. It doesn't mean, however, that we are completely finished there. There are methods and resources at our disposal that could get us back our power, or even set up our own shop somewhere else. Our combined resources now could do much progress, but I have stumbled on another option that could give us both an abundance of the above and secure any claims we make from here."

Jarlaxle ended his thought with a wide grin, looking at both his companions as if he had just made a major announcement. A chill traveled down Drizzt's spine as he suddenly recalled Vhaeraun's words during…his trance? He had even yet to figure out the whole meaning or situation behind that appearance, though he knew he would have to talk to a certain priest later. Regardless, one spider was spinning his web.

"If it involves Bregan D'aerthe, I will kill you now," Entreri sneered, not liking at all where this was going.

"Not at all," Jarlaxle replied as if accused, "nor does it involve Drizzt's associates in these woods." Drizzt couldn't help but notice the tone of wonder in his voice at this last statement, as if he was making mental notes for future schemes. "It does involve us doing a great duty to the poor people of Baldur's Gate, especially the simple artisans who follow Gond."

Drizzt and Entreri both rolled their eyes and gave respective groans.

"You mean to chase after Moril," Drizzt said, leaning his head against the wall and looking at the ceiling.

"A ridiculous idea for sure," Jarlaxle replied with a small chuckle, "though not so ridiculous with the right resources."

He reached into his vest and produced a soot covered disk of some sort of metal. He blew on it and revealed the harlequin's face that made Moril's seal. Drizzt and Entreri looked at the disk with a little more guarded curiosity.

"I decided to survey the scene of the tragedy," the mercenary said, slightly tipping his hat in a small measure of respect. "The remains of the temple are now a shrine, a collective of flowers and grieving souls. No one noticed me venture a little farther past the line of mourning and find this partly exposed in the debris. I thought it may have been a calling card at first, but I did a little more investigating, using some resources at my disposal to find this little seal holds many secrets."

He carefully placed the seal on the floor and waved his hand over it while saying a complex command phrase in some mystical language. The seal glowed, then started to spin. The light shone brighter as a beam came forth from the harlequin's face. Drizzt and Entreri drew back slightly in reaction, though the beam faded into a wide, panoramic image; a landscape dotted with small trees and mountains as if it was a detailed map. Both immediately recognized it as a map of the central northern region of Faerûn marked with a few different glyphs and dots of various colors.

"It took my resources a while to decipher the markings," Jarlaxle continued, glad Gromph had provided this simple illusionary disk to further the ruse, "that is how I know the Clown Cultist did not just bait a trap, it is too difficult to decipher…well for most. All these markings indicate various training camps and temples that Moril and his followers use as base stations. This small marking right here in the shallow part of the Giant's Run Mountains is his central base. When Moril is in any one of these locations, the glyph will glow red, indicating a surge of power. I also managed to procure amulets to ward against greater enchantments as well as a wand that will paralyze him instantly."

Jarlaxle ended his speech with an eager expression. Drizzt and Entreri gave the map another look over, noticing how all the glyphs regularly changed color and shape, indicating some sort of activity. Drizzt looked at Entreri, who had more experience dealing with magical artifacts than he. The assassin seemed to regard the map with interest. He stroked his goatee in contemplation and Drizzt could almost see his mind working over all the possibilities. Drizzt, however, was exercising many doubts; this was too easy a find to be legitimate, though maybe it was the first strand in the web he was entering.

Jarlaxle regarded both with a smirk as he slowly rose.

"I will leave this here for you gentlemen to consider," he said. "In the meantime, I wish to enjoy the rest of my afternoon in much more hospitable settings. We will meet and discuss all the details later."

The mercenary tipped his hat and spun on his heel with a sweep of his red cape, walking through the door without a sound.

Drizzt looked at the map again and then back at the human, meeting his gaze.

"Does this sound like anything appealing, or even remotely legitimate to you?" Drizzt asked with a slight arch of his eyebrow.

Entreri leaned his chin in his palm, tapping his cheek with his forefinger; obviously deep in thought.

"Legitimate, maybe," the assassin carefully replied. "A trap, most likely."

Drizzt looked at him carefully, seeing a gleam in his companion's black eyes he had never thought possible.

"You are just itching to go, aren't you?" Drizzt asked.

Artemis Entreri looked up at him and gave a wide smirk.


	6. Scenes from the Wood

**The Lesser Evil: Hooligan's Holiday**

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of R.A. Salvatore/Wizards of the Coast ©. I don't own them; I'm just examining all their possibilities.

Author's Note: This chapter is coming directly after the release of _Promise of the Witch King _(which everyone should go out and get because it is fabulous). I know euphorbic expressed some concern that the continued storyline might render "Devil Takes Hindmost" AU. After finishing that book, I can say that the same is not true with this story. In fact, I thought the plot of "Lesser Evil: Hooligan's Holiday" only made more sense afterwards. However, the entire Lesser Evil series is written with the assumption that the storyline is AU, though it hasn't officially been rendered that by canon. When the next Drizzt book come out however...

**Chapter 6: Scenes from the Wood**

A small pine chip raked across the strings of Tyls Telfrir's yarting, an instrument that looked like an elongated version of a lute though with a long neck and a flat body that fit his elven hands perfectly. The music that normally flowed from this instrument was typically a simple, low sound that came from raking a small pick across the strings, though this sound was more the wail of a banshee, music from an instrument enchanted to give off a loud, melodious yet discordant wail that pumped even more passion into the drow who gathered to meet one of the best known drow bards in Faerûn. Tyls belted out an old pirate song in praise of pillage and plunder, his vocals bearing the melody of an elf yet the roughness of a typical surface drow. Behind him, another male in red robes plucked at another elongated lute, though this one producing a very low tone from plucking the strings while a male in leather straps and trousers beat on a set of drums with a pair of sticks. A hardened looking female drow in a black leather dress dragged a bow against a fiddle, producing a surprisingly light melody.

The Auzcovyn joined around Tyls' discordant wail danced in circles in a primal ecstasy, some slamming into each other while others would stand to the side and wail along with the Common tongue lyrics. Tyls whipped back his mane of white hair streaked with purple dye, the locks flung against his open, black leather tunic. He picked methodically at the strings while his fingers practically whirred across the fretboard. His red eyes scanned the crowd; a hospitable bunch that he always counted on to give him lodging whenever he passed through these woods. Eventually, he looked at the group's leader; the Rogue Prince who joined the circle of primal dancers, though sometimes he took a break from the chaos and stayed to the side, pumping his fist in the air at the right beats and screaming along with the lyrics.

From Mazn'reysla's view from the top of a high rock along side the village, the scene was amusing. It was also a perfect way to focus his senses a little more after a Reverie that followed a hard night of arcane study. He casually ran his hand over the course fur of his demonic feline familiar; who had lazily curled up in a ball in his lap as he took a few deep breathes and gazed at the sweet chaos before him. Drizzt looked to be enjoying himself as he ran into the circle that he overheard a few other dancers refer to as a "mosh pit" and slammed against a few fellows in primal, chaotic bliss. From his vantage point, the High Priest could also see Artemis Entreri keeping to the edges as he watched this spectacle with something resembling a wry smile, carefully sipping from a glass of boysenberry juice with a tiny spike of mild whisky; a spirit commonly known as "Fur from the Wolf that Bit You." Jarlaxle was somewhat in the circle, though he mostly stayed to the side and danced to the music as if it were a light jig.

A female wood elf with long brown hair and tight leather trousers casually emerged from the pit, her face bearing a few bruises and her hair somewhat wild, though looking thoroughly pleased with herself. Milae Winlir was a regular guest in the Auzcovyn; a ranger and rogue, who could be just as cruel and cunning as any drow, yet bore the aura of surface elven sanctity when she conned half the forest into being her friend. Her greatest coup was going to Mithril Hall and successfully convincing all the leaders of the Silver Marches into believing Drizzt Do'Urden had been killed in battle. The subsequent investigations by Mithril Hall and Silverymoon gave the Auzcovyn the perfect opportunity to test their defenses against formidable foes. Milae had arrived earlier to share a few bits of information about a couple recent appearances by those rumored to be minor Menzoberranzan spies with the Prince before relaxing to this performance. Her lover and partner Aden Nathiel, a ranger as well as a skilled sorcerer, was still collecting information and Mazn'reysla knew he would be back within the hour.

The High Priest saw the elf maiden inch closer to Entreri with beckoning eyes. She never hid her attraction to the dangerous assassin, which Aden either never noticed or cared. Entreri casually glanced in her direction, noting her hungry eyes as she casually came to him. Mazn'reysla could not read her lips, but he knew she was attempting to start a conversation with him. The prickly human gave his typically curt responses while barely even looking at her. The two fell in silence, though Maz swore he saw the assassin's dark eyes casually train over and scan the elf's form. Milae turned back to him and stared directly in his eyes, a gesture he returned with only a fraction of his usual venom. In a second, he grabbed her arm, pulled her forward, and kissed her roughly.

Maz felt his stomach drop closer to his feet as Milae joined in with gusto, a few drow around them clapping and whistling. Drizzt stopped dancing altogether to regard the cause of the applause and did a rapid double take when he saw his typically frigid and staid partner actually kissing someone. Maz let out a loud chuckle as Artemis drew back, grabbed her wrist, and roughly lead her towards Drizzt's treehouse nearby. He could hear the maiden's sarcastic cries of "Help, save me from this villain," as she wore a wide grin and took the rope to the top of the tree, both traveling up in each others arms as they darted into the treehouse.

It was an unusual occasion indeed. Everything Mazn'reysla heard about Entreri was that he was a mistress of his profession; a serious task master who saw all other baser pursuits as distractions. A smile gradually crept over the High Priest's face as Azril arched her back and nuzzled her nose into his palm; maybe Artemis Entreri had learned to enjoy his own flesh a little more.

"I certainly hope Aden is not a jealous man," a familiar voice said behind him with a dirty laugh. Mazn'reysla froze; internally scolding himself for allowing Jarlaxle to intimidate him like this.

Mazn'reysla looked directly beside him and saw the mercenary coming to a sit on a lower part of the boulder; staying at a relative distance, yet close (too close) for conversation. Maz regarded him with a blank expression, calming the residual trembling nerves that were the result of their first meeting last year. That was when he was still the runaway from his House, the blasphemer, and the killer of his mother and Matron. Then, he thought House Sshemlet had sent Bregan D'aerthe to find him; a moment of terror that crept into his being and reminded him of its presence whenever Captain Jarlaxle was around. After a year, he had become somewhat accustomed to the mercenary's presence, yet still bore him no love. Being in a crowd with Jarlaxle beside him was one thing, being in these intimate quarters with him was a different matter entirely. He took a few deep breathes and let his mind recall all the things Vhaeraun had whispered to him about the smug mercenary's colored origins and allowed himself to relax.

Jarlaxle knew of Mazn'reysla's dislike of him that seemed to be tinged with fear; a state that he tried not to inflate his ego, though it did perturb him a little. The mercenary carefully observed the unpredictable cleric's irritated expression that bore hints of outright hostility and fear. Like his familiar, he was a cat ready to spring at the slightest sudden movement. Jarlaxle tipped his hat slightly with a smile, noticing how the cat in his lap also turned her head and fixed her burning red eyes on him. He wanted to continue the light conversation, though knew that might not be the best idea. If he wanted to get anything accomplished with this one, he would have to get to the point fast.

"I'm sorry," Jarlaxle said, smiling in deference, "we have had so little opportunities to really talk. In fact, I think we got off on the wrong foot with each other the first time we met; or rather that was my fault. I was more than a little harsh on you that night. I wish to correct things between us now; you have proved yourself a truly able caster and cleric. That alone would earn my respect, though the fact both my companions are alive and well today thanks to that skill puts me in your debt."

He paused and saw Mazn'reysla's expression softening, though still firmly in place. He remained perfectly silent, not even making any real gestures or expressions. Jarlaxle gave a shallow sigh and planned his next words carefully.

"I would like to consider you a fellow, Father Mazn'reysla," Jarlaxle continued, his smile turning a bit more serious, "perhaps a member of our little troupe, the fourth Rogue King if you will; the Rogue Templar. Though, frivolities aside, I would like to see your talents put to a great use."

Mazn'reysla's left eyebrow arched slightly, almost as if he was beckoning Jarlaxle to continue.

"As you may know, there is force threatening all in Faerûn who pray to a deity," Jarlaxle began in a mysterious tone.

"The one known as Moril," Mazn'reysla said carefully, his mere speech nearly knocking Jarlaxle from his boulder.

"I knew the name of that villain was familiar to you," Jarlaxle said, trying to sound passionate about the cause. "I have resources, numerous and nameless, that have found where Moril keeps his base and were he breeds his minions. My companions have already agreed that this is a worthy cause and all are formidable warriors. We are, however, in need of a spellcaster and a healer; one who can bind our wounds and give us the blessings of the divine after blasting our combaters with potent magic. It is the perfect opportunity to prove your skills against another wizard of great and terrible power, yet Moril spits on what you possess in great amounts; the aid of a deity."

He paused again and saw Mazn'reysla look out into the crowd. Aden Nathiel had entered the village and rushed over to Drizzt, whispering something in his ear that caused both to dart into the woods. Mazn'reysla pondered this for a second; before the sudden sound of a woman's passionate screams through the air broke his concentration, as did the cheers that followed. He looked back at Jarlaxle, who still wore a calm expression.

"I understand you have a duty to your people and if you cannot be away from here, I understand perfectly," the mercenary continued, looking at Drizzt's treehouse with a smile. "Though if you care to get out for an actual adventure, I will be here all night."

Jarlaxle jumped to the ground and tipped his hat before turning around with a flourish of his cape.

"That Sshemlet water clock that the Archmage now possesses," Mazn'reysla called, causing Jarlaxle to jump a bit in surprise as he turned around. "It will give an extra invisibility orb at the half light of Narbondel if it is rubbed with black velvet. I am sure that information will prove useful to you."

Jarlaxle gave a stiff smile, trying to hide the shake his muscles took at the mere mention of Gromph. There could only be a thousand reasons for this information and one of them the worst possible explanation. He put this out of his head as he nodded in deference.

"You will have my decision by sunrise," the High Priest said with the hint of a smile, gauging every one of the mercenary's twitchy reactions, before looking out at the village of revelers once more.

00000000000

"I hope this isn't a friend of yours," Aden said, looking at Drizzt's disgusted expression while pointing at the display before them.

Skewered on a high pole beside a pine tree was the head of a male drow, face locked in an expression of terror while a scroll was sewn to his lips and a fancy neckpurse dangled from the exposed remains of spine. Drizzt carefully examined the head; he did not recognize the corpse as anyone from the known Auzcovyn troupes, not anyone from House Jaelre. He carefully reached forward and pulled at the string of the neckpurse, waiting a second to see if any magic traps were released. When nothing happened, he opened the purse wider and reached inside; a few coins were strewn about, though the smooth, yet powerful sensation of an adamantine disk drew his attention. Drizzt took the disk and examined the insignia with a small chuckle.

"We found one of our spies," he said, showing the disk to Aden, whose fine copper eyebrows rose slightly.

"House Insignia?" the wood elf asked.

"Menzoberranzyr," Drizzt replied, examining the insignia before putting it in a special, anti-magic pouch in his belt. He felt no need to share the house name at this time.

Aden drew a small hunting knife and cut the strings holding the scroll in the dead drow's mouth, which he collected and read it for magic. The scroll was completely mundane. He was about to open it when Drizzt's attention suddenly turned to the ground. Aden put the scroll in his belt and looked to see what interested his fellow ranger so much.

_The tracks are fresh, _Drizzt signed in drow hand code, a language that Aden had mastered through friendly tutelage just a few years ago.

Drizzt knelt down, giving the bootprints closer scrutiny. They obviously belonged to a midsized human, likely wearing boots with a heavy tread appropriate for woodland travel; the type of boots a typical ranger might wear. He came to a full stand and followed the tracks, Aden keeping close on his heels with one hand in reach of his longbow. Drizzt followed the tracks in the mud away from the trail and further into the woods, keeping his keen ears open for any disturbances in the wood other than his own fine tread and that of his wood elf companion. As the wood became thicker and the light of the moon became sparser, Drizzt let his vision shift into the infrared spectrum. He looked back down at the tracks and noticed a few lingering drops of heated fluid dotting the trail; fresh blood.

A short ways into the wood, the drow suddenly stopped; picking up the faint, yet unmistakable sound of two men talking amongst each other. He motioned Aden to follow as he drew his scimitars and crept closer to the noise as it followed the tracks. Both elves came to a small clearing where they saw what looked like a moon elf sitting on the ground and pulling his black robes tight around his body for warmth. A human in faded woodland leathers walked up beside him and leaving behind familiar prints, as well as a few drops of blood from whatever he held in his hand. The closer they came, the conversation became clearer.

"I still say that was a bit unnecessary," the moon elf huffed, tossing his silver hair over his shoulder.

"Linuin," the human said in an annoyed tone, "would you get off my ass once and trust me on this one. His Fucking Tyranny told us to get the job done, and guess what, we did it."

The human threw down what looked like a severed arm, whose splintered skin displayed an obvious ebony hew.

"I mean this little habit of yours, Fielder" Linuin snapped. "I am thoroughly tired of you playing with the remains of your prey. It is so…barbaric."

Drizzt and Aden stepped closer, keeping within the brush and not making a sound as they got a closer look at the two. Fielder had a long, tangled mane of mousy brown hair and a beard to match, which was braided with green ribbon that dangled down an inch off his chin. He looked relatively young, likely mid twenties, though the cold glow in his ice blue eyes suggested cruelty beyond his years. Linuin, in the opinion of both the wood elf and the drow, had to be the ugliest moon elf they had ever seen: his large eyes practically bulged out of his head like a fish while his small mouth was caged in frown lines that spread from the bridge of his nose to the side of his chin. His silver hair was matted and looked like it hadn't been washed in weeks. Fielder was obviously a ranger in the most primitive sense, while Linuin bore the typical attire of a spellcaster.

"My manners offend you, my work offends you, hells, I bet the smell of me offends you," Fielder said, coming closer to Linuin and kicking the severed arm and putting it but an inch from his crossed legs. "Just shut the fuck up and deal with it, okay?"

Drizzt tapped Aden on the shoulder and motioned for him to take a flanking position beside the elf while he moved in the opposite direction closest to the human. Aden nodded, drawing his bow and moving into position. Drizzt whispered a command word and a thick cloud of shadow poured from the red garnet pommel of WraithKiss, his black scimitar that was a personal gift from his deity. The shadow encompassed his form, blending him in with the darkness and allowing him to creep through the brush and blend in with the shadows surrounding their pitiful camp.

"Our work is done for the night," Linuin said, coming to a stand carefully stepping over the mangled drow arm below him, giving it one last, disgusted look before turning his glare to Fielder. "I say we return to Wenthias Castle now, get out pay, and be out of here."

_Wenthias Castle, _Aden signed in Drizzt's direction, making sure he caught that last remark, though adding the raised thumb indicating a question.

Drizzt pondered for a second; the name was not at all familiar, but there were so many nobles and tiny manors lining these woods he could only learn the names and preferences of a few. He floated a few steps closer to the human, staying out of range of the moonlight to give him greater cover. Aden noted the cloud of unusual darkness coming within range and decided it was time to spring this trap. He shot an arrow into a tree a few feet above the elf, who gasped and raised his hand in a casting…before the highest hand suddenly had an arrow appear through it.

Linuin gave a high pitched scream as Fielder drew his own, finely crafted bow and nocked an arrow, before the black blade of a scimitar rested under his Adam's apple, causing him to fire the bow clumsily into the woods and hitting nothing but a few low fern bushes. A low command work sucked the shadows back into the red garnet, giving the human ranger a clear view of the bare ebony arm wielding the deadly sword at his throat.

"I don't think you'll be needing that bow, human," Drizzt hissed in Fielder's ear. "You are in my territory now."

The human barely broke a sweat. Instead he dropped the bow and looked down at the arm, giving a dirty chuckle.

"So tell me," he replied in a mocking voice, "are all you fucking darklings using scimitars these days. Tsk, tsk, so unoriginal."

Drizzt felt the burn of a heavy boot connecting squarely with his shin, knocking him a few steps backwards. The human ducked to a crouch, breaking free of his grip as the drow suddenly found himself parrying a simply forged longsword with WraithKiss. A second later, Twinkle easily swatted aside a hunting knife, whose only dweomer appeared to be a thick coating of rust; a convenient feature. A set of legs leapt into the air and connected squarely against Drizzt's shoulders; a move the drow assumed was aimed at his throat. Drizzt braced the blow, doing a back flip and coming to a crouch, sweeping both scimitars in a cross formation. The human leapt high, almost doing a mid-air belly flop while stabbing the sword down towards the drow's shoulder. Drizzt threw his legs out and allowed himself to float down on his back while his feet planted on the human's shoulders, pushing him back and on the ground with a bounce.

Drizzt managed to catch his fall with his hand as he came to a backward crouch to see Fielder do a full back flip spin in air, sweeping out with his sword and coming to his feet, charging forward with the momentum. Drizzt came to his feet, taking a steady stance as he launched into a flurry of blows, meeting the human's blades before he had time for any more acrobatics. From the corner of his vision, the drow saw Aden shoot a web of sticky purple silk from his fingers, capturing the still-whimpering moon elf, who frantically started a casting successfully tore apart many threads on the web. Aden waved his fingers and a lightening bolt shot against Linuin, only to be absorbed in a gemmed ring on his hand as he still attempted to break from the web and run to his companion all at the same time; a strategy that was failing miserably.

Fielder attempted another jump before being caught in Drizzt's flurry and taking a nasty gash across both shins. He grunted loudly before kicking out at Drizzt once again; a blow the drow anticipated as he leaned back, only to get the point of a sword through the flesh of his shoulder as the human reversed his momentum. The human had essentially feinted with his body; a move that intrigued his opponent even more. Drizzt used his injured arm to parry the blade hard, dislodging it from his shoulder with a brutal sear before coming to his feet and doing a fast lunge that connected with the human's chest. He was about to finish the blow before the human did a back fall and kicked up with his legs sending Drizzt part way up with him. Drizzt swung his legs forward, leaping over the boots of his opponent and planting his feet hard on the human's shoulders. The drow had him pinned to the ground, yet immediately cursed himself for such a predictable move as the sear of a blade exploded into his abdomen. He immediately did his own back fall before the blade could go to far, coming to a backward roll and turning the edges of his blades inward. The human came to his feet and Drizzt successfully twisted the swords behind his legs and slicing out; the move successfully hamstringing him. The drow disengaged his blades and kicked out, sending the screaming and cursing human harder to the ground as he came to his own feet.

Drizzt remained in a standing crouch for a second and raised slowly, the pain in his gut almost unbearable as blood flowed freely from the wound. Suddenly the elf wizard broke free of the web and ran forward, doing his own belly flop enough to grab Fielder's wrist. A flash of light sent Drizzt to the ground, his drow vision momentarily assaulted by the magical glare. A second later, the glare faded. Drizzt regained his bearings to look up and see both the human and the moon elf were gone, only a few traces of blood marking their former presence.

Aden rushed forward to Drizzt, who gave out a loud curse as he clutched his bleeding stomach. The wood elf reached into his belt and produced a small vile he tossed to the drow, who immediately took it, bit lifted the cork with his teeth before spitting it out, and gulped down the potion. The pain melted away and the blood stopped flowing, though a residual ache remained that did not allow him to come up from the ground too soon.

Drizzt gave Aden an appreciative nod, noting the line of blood that dribbled from a cut along his scalp, blending perfectly with his fair copper hair. The wood elf's face was also lined with soot while one eye was slightly swollen.

"Are you all right?" Aden asked in a tone of casual, yet profound concern.

Drizzt nodded, then came to his feet with a groan, steadying himself against the sudden wave of dizziness that came with standing up too fast after losing a fair bit of blood. His vision cleared and he sheathed both blades with a scream of metal. Drizzt looked back to the ground and saw the human's finely made bow lying idly in the grass. The drow reached down and picked it up, noting the fine staff; the sturdy, yet flexible wood was dyed green and was carved to look like a twisted root. He drew the string and tested the weight on the string with a nod of approval.

"The sentinels of a powerful lord, perhaps?" Aden said cautiously.

"I will give them credit," Drizzt said, taking another scan of the bow before looking back at his companion, "they were useful for something."

"Something like running back to their master," Aden replied. "I have a bad feeling we will be hearing more from them."

Drizzt arched a white eyebrow.

"That bothers you?" he asked, a small smirk forming on his face.

Aden replied with a chilling chuckle.

00000000000

Milae stepped back on the ground, tossing the rope back to Entreri, who gave it a sharp tug that caused it to retract and wind back around the upper branch of the tree. She lightly spun around on her heels and gave him a light kiss, sending a wide smirk across his face as she practically danced back into the rest of the revelers, who barely looked to have taken any break from their chaotic dance. Entreri stepped gently beside her and grabbed her hand, using her own momentum to spin her around. She responded by pushing him back with his own arm and spinning him around.

Entreri was in enough of a good mood that he allowed her to lead this dance to a new pirate song in praise of wine. He felt the lightest and most at peace he had in a long while; but then his partner was a lively one anyway. His long, black hair flowed freely down his shoulders, whose tunic still bore a bit of residual sweat from the rather strenuous activity he had taken part in a second ago. Entreri let his thoughts wander as his eyes scanned every ounce of the beautiful wood elf's voluptuous form. He swore he heard a few drow clapping in his direction and giving out wolf calls, yet he paid no attention.

The assassin looked up to see Jarlaxle standing against a tree, arms crossed and face locked into his usual grin. His eyes widened and he dramatically put a hand to his chest as if witnessing a shocking event.

"What is this?" the drow mercenary gasped. "The great and terrible Artemis Entreri dancing happily with an elf maiden? By the Abyss, has the universe gone mad?"

Entreri gave him an annoyed smirk, allowing Milae to take him in another spin.

"The next thing you know," Jarlaxle continued, "Halaster Blackcloak will be planting rose gardens all around the Undermountain while humming a lovely tune." His eyes slowly shifted to see Drizzt entering the village a few feet away from Jarlaxle followed by Aden, a look of complete rage on his face. "Or maybe the valiant Drizzt Do'Urden will go on a sudden killing spree with no provocation," he continued loud enough for Drizzt to hear clearly. "Oh wait, that happened already."

Drizzt made no indication of hearing the remark at all. His lavender orbs were fixed straight ahead as he took a hurried puff from the clove stick in his hand. Entreri and Milae stopped for a second to see the drow ranger's clothes were torn, his green, sleeveless tunic dyed red with blood while fine bow was slung around his shoulder. Aden's stride tried to keep up with his companion, though his demeanor was a bit more relaxed. One hand removed a few stray leaves from his copper ponytail while the other put his own clove stick to his lips and allowed him to take a casual drag. Drizzt's path ended beside Xalryln, who was just exiting the "mosh pit" and was immediately greeted by a hard grip around his upper arm. He looked up to see Drizzt give him a look of complete frustration as he was dragged away from the group toward the green tent in the corner of the village that acted as a basic strategy room.

Milae tugged on Entreri's arm and guided him in the direction where Aden and the others had gone. The assassin followed without a second thought, more than a little curious as to what was going on, while pulling away from Milae lest her more formal partner get any ideas. Jarlaxle followed a few steps behind and watched as Drizzt glanced back and noticed the procession following in his direction. He slowed his pace and allowed the three to catch up, giving a nod of recognition and almost beckoning to his two companions and the female ranger. Aden also glanced back and in time to see Artemis Entreri lightly push Milae away. He met the human's gaze and gave a small smirk, which Entreri didn't know to take as a threat or solidarity, though the latter was the most likely.

Drizzt shoved Xalryln into the tent, the war leader giving him a glare of complete annoyance mixed with a hint of curiosity. The near frenzied look on the Rogue Prince's face answered many lingering questions, yet did little to satisfy Xalryln in the least. Szir and Teg'lyl, two of the Prince's lieutenants slipped in quietly, followed by Aden, then Entreri and Milae with Jarlaxle coming close behind. The mercenary gave a small glance back to see Mazn'reysla already in the tent as if he crept in silently behind them all. He tipped his hat to the cleric in greeting, yet Mazn'reysla stood still; cradling his familiar in one arm while his slender hand stroked her head as he stared at Drizzt and Xalryln, who looked to be on the verge of a fist fight any moment. Aden looked back to Milae and saw her give him a wicked grin. He looked at Entreri with a smile and chuckled; a response the assassin took as a friendly gesture. Maybe these two had a rather open relationship. Maybe the ever watchful assassin didn't need to draw his blades. It worked out well either way.

Drizzt and Xalryln continued their staring contest for a another second before the Rogue Prince nodded to Aden, who removed his backpack and dumped out its contents on the long table in the center of the tent. Xalryln's hard expression softened as his red eyes narrowed and looked closer at the severed head with a fancy neckpurse, whose string was tangled around the remaining stump of exposed spinal column. Milae cringed as Entreri and Jarlaxle crept closer and examined the new finding.

"How did you meet your friend?" Xalryln asked.

"We never had the opportunity of formal greeting," Aden said, taking a drag from his clove stick and blowing out a thick stream, "his head was already mounted on a pike just outside the border of this village."

"And I'd hardly call him friend," Drizzt sneered, "his role was best as crow food."

The Rogue Prince reached into the neckpurse and produced the adamantine disk, tossing it lightly on the table to give everyone in the tent a full view of the insignia. Szir from Sshamath and Teg'lyl from Mir by way of Sschindylryn did not immediately recognize the seal and examined it curiously. The immediate reaction was different for all the Menzoberranzyr drow in the tent. Xalryln from the roughest section of the Braeryn gave a loud curse as Mazn'ryesla from the fallen twenty-seventh house of Sshemlet bit his lower lip with a look of complete disgust. Jarlaxle merely stood casually still, yet all mirth evaporated from his being as he regarded the insignia of his own house.

The secondboy of fallen eighth house Do'Urden met Jarlaxle's gaze, noting how his demeanor seemed a bit muted.

"You've had extended dealings with House Baenre, Jarlaxle," Drizzt said, his mind remembering something both Maz and the avatar of Vhaeraun told him last year about the mercenary. "Is this the head of someone you recognize?"

Jarlaxle stared at the head as a small speck of panic formed at the bottom of his stomach. He reached into the neckpurse and produced a few strands of thread and pinches of sulfur powder the average soldier would not carry.

"No one I recognize," the mercenary said as lightly as possible, dusting the powder off his fingers with his thumb. "A low ranking wizard most likely; perfect fodder as one of those spies you all have been screaming about."

"This was not our work…unfortunately," Aden added. "His dispatcher did leave us a friendly note."

The wood elf reached into his belt pouch and tossed Xalryln the scroll, which the war leader unrolled cautiously noting how the black seal was already broken. His already sour expression seemed to curdle more the moment he saw the emblem stamped onto the parchment: a typical family crest of a black dragon against a gray background, a sword in each claw crossed over its chest with a shield in the center of the formation. It was the added detail of the shield bearing a black, gauntleted fist from which green rays emitted from the fingers that truly enraged him. The war leader took a deep breath and calmed himself as he looked at Drizzt, who took a hasty drag from his clove stick and blew the smoke in his face with a look of profound irritation aimed more at the situation than his fellow. Xalryln managed a forced smirk as his eyes turned back to the scroll.

"To the Honorable Rogue Prince and all our fellows in the forest," Xalryln read. "It has come to my attention that your people came under attack by devilish forces. I feel it is my duty to apologize for this unfortunate turn of events for the leader of this rabble was a member of my household. Long have the servants of Bane and the mighty dark elves of Cormanthor maintained a steady peace, a peace that is most beneficial for both our parties. To have this truce broken by the foolish actions of our kinsman, though he is a gift from the Lord of Darkness to our family, is unacceptable. Please accept the head of this villain, an enemy to your god, as recompense for this slight. If peace is maintained, you will find us a great and terrible ally. With most honorable regards, Sir Gherbod Wenthias, champion and Blackguard of Bane in the humble service of DuMare, twenty-third Earle Wenthias."

Xalryln threw the scroll on the table with a grunt.

"The head of one low wizard in recompense for battalion of twenty devils," Mazn'reysla said with a grimace.

"Don't say you're surprised," Drizzt added, about to raise the clove stick to his lips though realizing at the last minute the stick was no longer in his hand.

"If you be nice to them, they could be good for pest control," Jarlaxle added with an uncomfortable laugh.

Drizzt looked back and saw the mercenary standing right behind him, leaning against a pole while taking a long drag of a clove stick; fully inhaling the smoke before blowing a few rings. The ranger rolled his eyes in irritation before turning his attention back to the scroll on the table.

"He could be right," Xalryln said with a frustrated sigh. "Though this was clearly meant as a warning against retaliation; written in the Lawful tongue of course."

"We met Earle Wenthias' messengers in the wood," Aden added, taking a last drag off his stick before twisting off the end of the stump, "a human ranger and elven caster who were hardly lawful and not very honorable in the least. If His Tyranny sent this brute squad as simple messengers, I would keep alert."

"I agree with Master Nathiel's suggestions," Mazn'reysla added, his eyes still fixed on the contents of the table, "though I doubt there is an immediate danger as long as our parties keep out of each other's way."

Drizzt looked curiously at the High Priest, almost seeing the gears turning in his head.

"As for this Spider Kisser," Maz continued, "I suggest we mount his head in a nice, conspicuous place…"

"Though keep the house insignia in a separate container," Jarlaxle interrupted taking a hasty drag. "Should any of his friends decide to show up, it will give them a very convenient excuse to do more aggressive target practice."

All eyes in the tent regarded the mercenary, though his two companions and the High Priest practically bored their gazes through him. Drizzt and Entreri knew Jarlaxle to be perpetually cool; though now he was visibly unsettled and each could only guess the various reasons why. Mazn'ryesla casually turned away, trying to hide his small smile as he looked down at Azril's wide yawn.

"In the meantime I'm going to enjoy the rest of my night," Drizzt said, patting Xalryln on the shoulder before shoving his way out of the tent. Mazn'ryesla bowed to the company and followed close behind.

"You should save your strength," the High Priest said, coming to Drizzt's side.

"The wounds are healed," Drizzt said with an attempt at a smirk.

"And you have a long journey ahead of you," Mazn'reysla said, meeting his gaze.

Drizzt eyed him curiously only to meet the High Priest's usual smile.

"You are hunting a great threat, are you not?" Maz continued. "Chasing after one who defiles the divine for his own selfish purpose? Our esteemed Rogue King just informed me."

"He did," Drizzt replied, rolling his eyes and mentally cursing at Jarlaxle. "He didn't inform you that I had yet to agree to such an endeavor."

"_You_ pass up a grand adventure?"

"_I_ rather bored of playing hero of the Realms."

Mazn'reysla gave a loud cackle that sent chills down Drizzt's spine.

"As if you had a choice," the High Priest replied.

The creeping chill only increased. Drizzt's eyes narrowed as he held back the temptation to punch him. His rage was momentarily interrupted by the laughs of the Xalryln and the two lieutenants coming out of the tent and bearing the Spider Kisser's head. Szir tied his long hair onto a rope, which she threw over the nearest tree branch and let dangle from a visible level.

Entreri, Milae, Aden, and Jarlaxle emerged from the tent and looked at the trophy that was securely tied in place to small hook Teg'lyl had thrust into the ground. Entreri shrugged and started walking off. Milae grabbed his arm and gave him a long, lusty kiss while Aden laughed heartily. Jarlaxle barely noticed this scene at all; his entire focus was on the dangling head, a state Drizzt and Mazn'reysla noticed clearly.

Milae pushed Entreri back as she threw her arm around Aden's shoulder. Entreri was slightly taken aback, though he couldn't help but return Aden's dirty grin as the two wood elves walked back to the village.

Jarlaxle kept his glare on the head, before shaking off the feeling of dread and turning back to the remaining three with a creeping smile.

"The earlier we begin our journey," he said, meeting the gazes of every one of them, "the sooner we collect our spoils. Take your respective rests, collect your items, prepare your spells, and meet me on the northernmost end of the village at sunrise."

Mazn'reysla gave Drizzt a small scratch under the chin before walking off. Drizzt gave him a brief glance before turning his attention back to Jarlaxle, who followed close behind him. He looked at Entreri, who appeared as equally tired of this plotting as he. They exchanged weary glances before shaking their heads and walking back to the village.

Jarlaxle walked slower, watching all go off in separate directions as he paused in the brush and looked back up at the dangling head. When all were out of sight, he walked back to the trophy, taking a long drag of the clove stick and exhaling slowly, letting the calming incense cool his raging nerves for a second. He didn't recognize the dead wizard, but his appearance was no coincidence; nor was he merely a lackey sent to merely irritate some blasphemers. He inched closer to the point where he was directly under the wizard's final, horrified gaze.

"Yes, watch me well, you son of an ugly, withered bitch," Jarlaxle hissed, fully knowing he was likely heard by someone. "You do your scheming and collect all the juicy filth you can on me. Don't even think this will stand as another weight against me."

Jarlaxle continued staring at the drow's wide, milky eyes, realizing his legs took a small shake. His words were spoken in desperation, and he painfully knew that. He took a long breath before raising the stick to his lips and inhaling deeply. The smoke stung in his chest, but that barely bothered him. He blew out a few more smoke rings despite himself and twisted off the burning end of the stick, throwing it on the ground and giving one last sneer at the spy before turning on his heel with a swirl of his cape and walking off.

Author's Note: The plotline is indeed moving along. The character of Fielder started as an RP character in a D&D campaign I was in a few years ago. I made him on a whim and have loved him ever since.


	7. The Brute Squad

**The Lesser Evil: Hooligan's Holiday**

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of R.A. Salvatore/Wizards of the Coast ©. I don't own them; I'm just examining all their possibilities.

Author's Note: Yes, too long in coming I know. I blame reality.

**Chapter 7: The Brute Squad**

"You'll miss me," Mazn'reysla cooed, curling up closer to Drizzt.

Drizzt laughed, looking down at the head of pale blond hair lying gently on his bare chest.

"What makes you say that?" Drizzt asked coyly.

Mazn'reysla merely smiled and sighed, running one finger over Drizzt's chest and tracing a spiral over his skin. It was a gesture Drizzt hoped that was a merely one of affection, though he frankly didn't care at the moment. All he wanted to do was lie there in his cot all day and forget about the whole matter that he had been dragged into. Alas, he looked out the small window near the ceiling and saw the sky through the trees a shade of purple. Dawn was soon and the quicker he moved the quicker he could have this over with.

"Is that reluctance I smell?" Mazn'reysla asked in a slightly louder tone. "I'm surprised you're not gleefully awaiting this little journey; just you and your brothers killing things on the open road."

"No, not reluctance," Drizzt admitted.

"Xalryln did a fabulous job defending the clan against outsiders before," Maz said, "There is little danger here; from others at least."

Drizzt laughed and sat up further, pushing Maz's head aside and feeling it removed and flop on the pillow. Drizzt threw his legs over the bed with a groan, coming to his feet and walking over to the chair on the other side of the room. Mazn'reysla flopped on his back, hands positioned behind his head as he gave Drizzt a satisfied look.

"You'll miss me," the High Priest reiterated.

Drizzt took a pair of brown leather trousers off a small shelf in the corner covered with various folded garments and the occasional odd and end. He looked back at the cot and slowly put on his pants, covering his nether regions slowly as he strung his trousers.

"Yeah, I'll miss you," the Rogue Prince cooed.

Mazn'reysla gave a happy sigh and flopped back on his stomach. The room went silent for a second, through the High Priest could have sworn he heard light, elven footsteps approaching. Unsurprisingly, the green, wool blanket was roughly thrown off him as a small finger traced down his bare back.

"I'll leave you something to remember me by," Drizzt said, straddling Mazn'reysla's prone form.

Mazn'reysla merely smiled.

------------------

He was still prone on the bed, giving out a few happy sighs as his hand came up and waved at Drizzt. Drizzt finished buckling his weapon belt while looking down at Mazn'reysla, who had flopped over on his side and looked to be in the beginning of a cat nap. He adjusted the strap of his deceptively small backpack over his green, linen sleeve and smiled.

"Yeah, I'll miss you," he groaned.

Maz let out another happy sigh as Drizzt turned around and walked out onto the balcony. The sky turned a brighter shade of purple and soon looked blue. The bright orb appeared on the eastern horizon and slowly rose. The drow stood for a second in his usual quiet awe as he watched the sun come into the sky; he was a different person now, but many things in his soul transcended any principle or philosophy and would always remain beautiful.

At last, he stepped off the balcony, grabbing hold of the rope rolled around the branch of the tree and gently gliding to the ground. Very few drow were out this hour, but the few cooking breakfast or doing exercises gave everything from warm hellos to passing grunts in greeting. Drizzt looked around the village, taking in every treehouse, every fire, every tent, and feeling like he was leaving home. It was a realization that struck him or a second; he actually knew the meaning of home for the first time in a very long while. In his new life he actually had made a home for himself…among his fellow drow. Now he had to leave them for an unknown period of time. It was at that point when he realized he would know another feeling he had not in a long time; true, reckless adventure in its purest form…with his new traveling companions. He gradually left the perimeter of the village, taking note of the guard perched in the tree whose eyes lazily followed him. Some things deep down would never change.

Drizzt lightly stepped to the south, the end of the village he was likely overdue meeting the other rogues. A few minutes later, the fading smell of wood smoke became stronger. He walked further and came to a small clearing on a ledge overlooking the woods. A dark figure stood off to the side gazing out at the wide expanse of forest below. Drizzt stood still for a second, letting his unlikely friend have his peaceful moment. Entreri's face was covered by a few stray locks of black hair, yet he drow could clearly see his profile; Artemis Entreri actually looked at peace.

The assassin sighed and turned around, a carved stick in his hand on which some kind of meat was pierced through. He looked at Drizzt with a nod, his hardened face returning to the usual unnerving calm his companion was so used to.

"Morning, sunshine," Drizzt said sarcastically. "So what are we having for breakfast?"

Entreri responded with an eye roll and an annoyed smile.

"The charred remains of our other companion," the assassin replied, taking up the stick and holding it over the fire.

"What does he taste like?"

"Drow, I guess."

"Delicious."

Drizzt snuck a small ways into the wood, immediately finding a small rabbit sitting by a rock. A splash of blood later, the small creature was impaled at the end of a scimitar still struggling for life. Drizzt just looked down at it, noting Entreri's mildly disgusted expression as he raised the sword with the kicking and squirming creature in the center.

"Sorry," Drizzt said with a smile, forcing the sword into the ground and cutting the creature in half; ending its misery.

"You should find some new hobbies," the assassin sneered, testing the tenderness of the meat with his finger.

"Yes annoying you gets rather tedious," Drizzt replied, taking out a hunting knife and cutting into the creature's skin.

"You're going to rust your fine blade doing that," Entreri responded, noting how his rabbit meat was becoming a shade of golden brown as is cooked.

--------------

Normally it was the sun, but this morning it was the cursed fiery orb. A purple, broad-brimmed hat leaned further over the sensitive eyes that were only varying shades of red as its wearer trudged through the shallow section of forest. His boots were set to silent mode, since every other noise plainly offended him. Even the eyepatch was offering no protection from the bright sun, the bright universe, and Jarlaxle's own growing headache.

His Reverie was hardly restful, though that was probably due to the facet he lost track of how many glasses of brandy and wine and ale he had last night. He dreamed; he was sure of it, though even trying to recall his dreams was only making the pain in his head worse. A fine nose rose higher into the air, inhaling the morning aroma of dew-steeped pines and the corpses of leaves. He purposefully brushed his face against a nearby evergreen and received a cool shower of heavy dew before a slash of momentary prick as he failed to move his face before the momentum of the branch finished.

The smell of wood fire became steadily stronger as he approached the clearing in the wood that was his destination. Jarlaxle raised the brim of his hat slightly to see two lean figures standing over a small fire, cooking some type of meat with sticks; the drow and the human chatting almost…happily?

"Is it just me, or are we being approached by a dangerous creature," Drizzt asked Entreri, blowing on his chunk of meat before looking at Jarlaxle and taking a nibble.

"Maybe you should try shooting him," Entreri added, using his cooking stick to poke the fire. "It might wake him up a bit more."

"Ha ha ha," Jarlaxle said with a sneer, walking closer and eying the fire.

"Sunrise at the southernmost tip of the forest, _abbil_," Drizzt said, putting one foot up on a rock and squaring off at Jarlaxle, a grin creeping over his scarred face. "The sun broke an hour ago. So much for well laid plans, or at least plans laid while sober."

"Cheeky bastard," Jarlaxle mumbled, suddenly realizing his memories from the past night were a bit of a blur. "Speaking of plans well laid, we are missing one party member."

"Oh, Father Mazn'reysla," Drizzt said. "I was unaware he was a member of this party, until early this morning of course when he told me to give you his regards. Due to the new threats against our people, he cannot afford to venture too far."

"Do you always have such boring pillow talk?" Jarlaxle groaned, rolling his searing eyes. He couldn't say he was surprised; plainly vexed was the key word.

"Well he had little breath in him at the time," Drizzt said before taking a huge bite into his meat with a growl. Both elves could clearly hear Entreri's low chuckle from the fire.

"You bored the life out of him," Jarlaxle replied.

Entreri looked back down at the fire with a smirk before looking at his two companions and suddenly taking note of Jarlaxle's features. Normally the drow's smile was wide and confident, now it was significantly strained; a rare state of which Entreri made a mental note.

Drizzt smiled in response to the taunt and turned back to the fire. Jarlaxle then noted the black leather quiver strapped to his back containing many well-crafted arrows and the new bow he claimed the other night. Someone would be after that one later, no doubt. It was probably what Drizzt wanted.

"We have a rather long journey ahead of us," the mercenary began, taking the disk with the harlequin's face from his belt pouch. "I say we gather some horses…"

"Horses?" Entreri interrupted. "You said Moril could be hiding anywhere. Wouldn't horses only alert our presence, get in the way?"

Both drow looked incredulously at the typically practical assassin, who leaned against a tree taking a bite from the chunk of rabbit meat at the end of his homemade skewer. He regarded both calmly, yet his cold black eyes had the dull hint of a gleam.

"I agree," Drizzt added with a smirk. "Besides the horses are best used in case my people come under attack. I say we keep them with their owners."

"We could cover more ground and I have ways to conceal them," Jarlaxle added in an irritated tone that only made his companions' smiles wider. "Besides, I am sure the masters of stealth could go with a few less horses."

"The masters of stealth could go with one less flashy mercenary, yet they still let you in," Drizzt added.

Entreri looked at Jarlaxle's growing vexed expression and sneered.

"Two against one," the assassin said. "You will look awful silly maneuvering through hostile territory on a horse."

"But we'll flank you of course," Drizzt added, bending over the fire and rubbing his hands.

"Fine," Jarlaxle hissed, rolling his eyes. "Forget the horses. Let's debate more important matters now."

He put the disk on the ground and said the command word, causing it to spin and glow until the map of the area was fully visible.

"I figure we start here and move down Rauthauvyr's Road, spending the night in Scardale Town and moving from there," Jarlaxle said. "Our entire trip to the Giant's Run Mountains and back…without horses will span between two and three tendays."

Jarlaxle let his companions peruse the map for a second before saying the command word and watching as the map faded back into the disk.

"Is that all the knowledge you are imparting to us this morning, oh mighty navigator," Drizzt said. "Three tendays traveling into the void, or will you let us in on more."

"That is all for now," Jarlaxle replied, his voice closer to a tired growl. "I have the map and I will choose the route as is appropriate. Improvisation will keep rivals and quarry off our tails."

"Not to mention the sheep following the shepard," Drizzt added under his breath, though loud enough for all to hear.

"He leads us into a death trap, he will be the first to die," Entreri said to Drizzt in a matter-of-of fact tone.

"Obviously," Drizzt said, taking a bite from his stick.

Jarlaxle flashed tired glares at them both before looking back to the map.

"We are late already, I say we take to the road now," Jarlaxle said, placing the disk in his pocket, walking towards the road, and looking back impatiently. "Now both you good boys can bring your treats with you," the mercenary called back.

Drizzt and Entreri exchanged tired glances.

"Time is money," Entreri said, coming to his feet with Drizzt following close behind.

---------------

"I hope this isn't going to become a trend," Jarlaxle barked, kicking the corpse directly beneath him. The bandit was very dead by every standard.

This was not how the mercenary wanted to start this journey, but it was only inevitable; Rauthavyr's road was riddled with highwaymen and the three dirty ruffians who attempted that job met the wrong targets. The second the three humans shot out of the bushes with bows drawn, they're fates were already decided.

Jarlaxle wasn't too surprised when the first, bearded hooligan's speech starting with "Hand over them coins" went no further than Icingdeath through his throat. A howling gasp later, Jarlaxle casually looked behind him to see one small, bald man with a jeweled dagger stuck through his chest and his life-force pumping through the hand of the human with more skill. He debated at least throwing a rock at the third, but his opportunity faded with a scream and another thud of a body hitting the ground. The last ruffian was still vomiting blood when Drizzt hacked a few times and took off his hand. Jarlaxle guessed the man died of shock before the drow could have any more fun.

Drizzt finished mounting the severed hand on the tree with a thick, sharp stake before looking over at his companion's annoyed grimace. He also took note how Entreri was still rummaging through the corpse of the second mangled bandit, pocketing a few jewels and pretending not to notice the exchange…or the rant.

"We are barely on the road for a day and already you have not only sliced someone up, but are now mounting their severed extremities for all the Realms to see," Jarlaxle continued, his calm tone becoming gradually louder.

"These men were bandits," Drizzt replied calmly, tapping the stake into the tree with the pommel of his favorite utility dagger. "They went against opponents they should never have crossed."

"You know, we could have bat them around a little and sent them running on their merry ways," Jarlaxle said. "But I am sure that is a completely alien concept to you."

"Leave them so they could do this to other weary travelers?" Drizzt replied.

Entreri broke his silence with a loud chortle. Jarlaxle rolled his eyes and looked back at the human. Drizzt finished mounting the hand, leaving the severed part stuck through the palm with the wooden stake as blood flowed down the tree. He admired his work for a second before turning to the hand's former owner, rummaging through his vest pocket and producing a small sac he opened, revealing several platinum pieces inside. The rest of the pockets seemed empty, save for a few random gold coins; these were terrible bandits, but he was satisfied. Drizzt took a glance behind him to see Jarlaxle sneaking closer to the human, who appeared to have found a few emeralds in the other dead bandit's coat pocket.

"Please tell me I was delusional when you started laughing at his nonsense," Jarlaxle whispered in Entreri's ear, bringing his face close to the assassin's and not caring when he flinched slightly. "I was willing to tolerate the mindless slaughter when he first joined us, now we have been on the road for half a day and I already grow weary of this nonsense."

"You are suggesting that I enjoy it even more?" Entreri said in a harsh whisper. Both looked at Drizzt, who was sitting on the ground opening his backpack while taking a few glances behind him. He heard everything.

"That imbecile will draw attention to our path," the mercenary continued, "leaving every monster and every goodly person in Cormanthor running after us."

"Well that does leave three less bandits," Entreri added.

Jarlaxle's gaze bore into him, a look Entreri met with a calm smirk.

"They were bandits, Jarlaxle, bandits who looked interested in more than taking our coin," the assassin said, his face straightening. "Consider this keeping my priorities for anger in check. Don't even think for a second I approve of his methods, but two slashed corpses and one severed hand is pretty damn conservative by his standards."

"Wait; did I just hear you giving me a compliment?" Drizzt called back.

"Don't let it swell your head," Entreri called over in a dour tone.

The mercenary looked back up at the bloody hand on the tree and back to his partner.

"A warning to those who would make the same mistake," Drizzt said, meeting Jarlaxle's gaze.

"You know, I liked you two better when you were enemies," Jarlaxle hissed to Entreri. "Now I wake up facing down two sword wielding maniacs with common sympathies."

"That sounds familiar," the assassin added. "I recall waking up every morning and facing down two drow."

Jarlaxle rolled his eyes and stepped away, throwing up his arms in complete frustration.

"Well think about it this way," Entreri said louder. "When he wakes every day, he faces down us."

Drizzt gave a wicked cackle, looking back down at his bag and placing the jewels deep inside. He looked in for the right pouch to stow his booty when he saw a loaf of bread inside. Drizzt always carried simple trail rations for emergencies while he would always hunt otherwise. This loaf of fine smelling, crusty bread was definitely not his addition. He moved the loaf aside and saw the edge of a cured sausage peeking out from a red napkin. Drizzt smiled, noting the bottle of fine, elven mead underneath. Mazn'reysla must have left him a few presents while he was watching the concert last night. Drizzt casually rummaged further and took note of the two cloth sacks that smelled heavily of dried cloves. He took one pouch out of the bag and put it in his belt, noting the metallic ball underneath.

Drizzt reached down to the ball to find it was actually the pommel of a steel weapon. He clasped the hilt and slowly brought it out of the bag, keeping it low so his still-arguing companions would never see it. In his hand now was a finely crafted short sword encased in a black leather sheath. Drizzt felt a chill down his spine as he brought the blade out of its scabbard a small ways to see the gleaming, razor sharp blade underneath. There was a reason for this gift; one of divine influence.

He hastily sheathed the sword completely and shoved it into the bag, throwing it over his shoulder and coming to his feet before walking towards his companions. Entreri dragged his corpse into the wood and covered him with branches.

"Are we finished hacking things apart for at least a few more hours?" Jarlaxle huffed.

"Yes, thank you, I'm quite satisfied now," Drizzt replied with a huge smile, kicking some leaves over the body underneath him.

Entreri walked ahead of his companions, wanting to avoid the bickering entirely and get back on the damn road. A small breeze blew through the late spring trees. Entreri looked up at the full green leaves and inhaled their sweet, earthy perfume. The assassin had learned to appreciate such natural simplicity over the past few years, though the past day had made him even more appreciative of the smells and sensations of mere…life.

He kept his guard up as usual, but Artemis decided to let himself relax a little, tuning out Jarlaxle and Drizzt's argument concerning the proper disposal of the third body. It was a relaxation suddenly interrupted. The hair on his arms and the back of his neck started to rise slightly as an insignificant, yet deep feeling of discomfort appeared in his general being. He stood more at the ready, the sensation becoming slightly stronger. Almost on instinct, he looked up into the trees and immediately saw a small black figure jumping two treetops and gliding into the leaves before disappearing along with the uneasiness.

Entreri's black eyes stayed focused on the trees for a second, before he gave a resigned sigh and turned back to his companions. Both had just stopped arguing about something and never noticed his momentary discomfort.

A bird, he thought, nothing more. Regardless, he was still at full alert

-------------

They had already passed by one cooling corpse lying in an alleyway. Two men were having an all out duel with bastard swords and leaving healthy looking trails of blood. A drunken gnome was passed out in the same trough of brown mush where three horses were already dining. This and darkness was already passing over the land.

"Welcome to Scardale Town," Drizzt said to his companions, looking closer at the gnome to see if the pathetic creature was alive or dead. His question was answered a few seconds later when the small man let out a loud belch that slightly disturbed his bed of wet meal.

"Charming," Entreri groaned, seeing two orcs pass them by with threatening glares.

This was the assassin's second trip to Scardale Town. The first time was last year and ended with the group being sent into a death trap by a former employer. It was a memory that the human would call anything but sweet. Since then this horrid town had become even more horrid in his mind. It wasn't as if he wasn't used to such an environment; far from it. This was a typical evening on any back street in Calimport. If it was happening in any place other than a quaint looking village, he would have felt right at home. Instead the calamity was considerably out of place in this space meant to be the home of pastoral folk.

Drizzt took the head of the party as they walked further into the town. Jarlaxle made no protest; in fact he walked closer behind Drizzt, though Drizzt frequently changed his position so his shifty friend wasn't fully behind him.

"I will choose our hospitality tonight," the fallen ranger said, moving with a determined pace towards an overgrown cottage off to the side.

The vines crawling up the side was the only quaintness left and it was bordering the rotting shingles and white paint on the walls that looked a tiny bit white through the gray peels. A few unsavory characters walked in and out, while one unfortunate dwarf pretty much flew out and landed on the ground with a loud thud and a loud laugh. Jarlaxle looked up and saw a rickety sign hanging over the door. _The Faerie's Tail _it read.

"The faerie tale ended eons ago," the mercenary mumbled under his breath. "You have truly impeccable taste," he continued louder and with a forced smirk.

"The best one in town," Drizzt said, putting a hand on the swinging door. "Trust me on this one."

"I would hate to see your definition of mediocre," Entreri added, giving a hand motion for him to proceed.

Drizzt casually opened the door, washing him and his companions in the rich aroma of stale pipeweed and strong liquor steeped in the various body odors of the few patrons. Hardly any arms or tapestries adorned this place save for a rusted halberd nailed underneath the mounted head of a dire bear and a few scribbles of various obscenities in various tongues written on the walls in charcoal. A couple robed schemers huddled in one corner while a scarred group of snarling bandits in their finest rags huddled in another. The rowdy dwarves, from which the gentleman outside had come, sat in the center of the room swearing about their lost companion. Hardly anyone noticed when the two drow and the well-armed human came to the bar.

In fact, Entreri did a rapid double-take when he saw the bartender; a wizened-looking dark elf sitting on a high backed chair behind the bar. Judging by his tattered gray robe and the thin pipe he smoked, he looked to be a wizard. Judging by his perpetually sour demeanor, stringy long white hair, and the very fact he was behind the bar here, he looked like a wizard who had likely seen better days. The drow glanced at the group and gave the three a bored glare.

"Oh look," the drow said, resting the stem of his pipe on his lower lip, "if it isn't the Companions of the Hell."

"Well met, Zalen," Drizzt replied in the same tone, leaning on the bar and directly facing the other drow. "One large room, a hot meal, and plenty of drinks; and we would like them now."

"You have coin for all of this?" Zalen huffed.

"You have coin for other services rendered?" Drizzt replied, ending his sentence with a wicked smirk.

Zalen rolled his dull red eyes, making a hand motion to shoo them off. Drizzt gave a mocking bow as a piece of platinum bounced off the withered hand resting on the table. Jarlaxle managed a nod to the innkeeper while Entreri gave him a passing glance and walked to a small table in the middle of the room.

"Word has it some traders found three dead humans on the road just outside of Cormanthor," Zalen added.

Drizzt put a hand on his wooden chair and gave an annoyed smirk.

"Tell me how I should care," the fallen ranger replied.

"You're work is getting attention," Zalen the withered drow said in a sing song tone, his mouth curling up in a cracked semblance of a smile.

Drizzt looked at him and smiled widely.

"They didn't find the fourth body," he said. The old dark elf's eyebrow rose slightly. "He was delicious." Zalen gave a forced laugh that turned into a hacking cough. Drizzt laughed back for a second. "One bottle of wine, one bottle of whisky, and three glasses…now old man," Drizzt hissed.

Zalen gave another hacking laugh while slowly coming to his shaking legs.

"I've passed things through my lower bowel older than you," he said, mouthing the word "Do'Urden" before spitting out "Brat!"

"Then maybe they can provide better service," Drizzt called back, dragging out his wooden chair with a shrill scream across the floor and plopping in his seat.

"Charming indeed," Jarlaxle mumbled, lifting his seat out and gently sitting down.

Entreri walked over to the bar and said a few silent words to the innkeeper, all within the careful watch of the two other drow in the room. A second later, Zalen heaved a tray containing two bottles and three glasses on the bar, which Entreri lifted and brought to his table. The assassin sat down in his seat and uncorked the bottle of wine, pouring some in the glass and sniffing its stagnant contents before taking a long sip. It tasted closer to vinegar than wine, but it was close enough.

"Are you playing barmaid tonight?" Drizzt said, lifting the bottle of amber spirits and popping the cork.

"You try to lay me, I'll disarm you," Entreri added, leaning back in his chair and doing a scan of the room.

"Sorry, you're too ugly," Drizzt said, throwing back the bottle and feeling a bland liquid run pas his tongue. He put the bottle on the table with a surprised look. "What in the Nine Hells did you get?"

"I was rather surprised to learn on the road that Scardale Town does distribute a very fine variety of apple cider for distribution to Sembia," Entreri replied with a pointed smirk. "You could use a change of pace for once."

A pair of lavender eyes rolled profoundly as their owner let out a sigh. He wasn't too much in the mood for arguing now. Entreri looked to Jaralxle, who picked up the bottle of cider and sniffed its contents. With a shrug, he poured a small amount into his glass and took a sip, lowering the glass with a nod.

"Passable," the mercenary said, putting his elbow on the table and letting his head hang a little.

"Hardly," Drizzt said, glaring at a still-smiling assassin while pushing back his seat with another scream and coming to his feet.

Entreri rolled his eyes and looked back around the room as Drizzt walked to the bar and managed to call Zalen over. The old drow gave a groan and put a small bottle of whisky on the bar in front of Drizzt. The assassin rolled his eyes and swirled the contents of his wine glass as the hair on his arm stood up again and the small chill from earlier returned. He maintained his casual demeanor, yet honed his muscles to spring. There was a reason for this bizarre sensation and he would discover it soon.

The front door slammed open to reveal a heavy, black boot beating it in. The boot's owner stomped loudly into the bar, his appearance drawing attention from every one. Few noticed the simple, white tunic and black leather armor; neither did they care about his stocky, yet muscular frame. What drew their attention first was the horns that protruded from his flat forehead; short, yet significantly parting his mid length, curly black hair. Then there was the long, muscled tail swinging from the bottom of his spine; a tail that likely bore a point at one point in time. His bright yellow eyes met every gaze in the room menacingly only to stop on one pair of lavender eyes that looked back from the bar.

Drizzt leaned one arm on the bar as his neatly trimmed fingernails dug into the wood with his fury, while the other hand rested on his hip close to his handcrossbow and the pouch containing the severed tip of the new visitor's tail. The tiefling stopped and glared at him, his long mouth was forced into a frown as he let out a small growl. Entreri and Jarlaxle stayed in their seats, yet stared at the newcomer; a creature whose heritage was of the lower planes. Entreri knew his mystery was at least partially answered.

A second later, the door swung open again and a gangly moon elf in blue wizard's robes walked in, immediately looking at the tiefling, then at Drizzt; his blue eyes bulging out even more as he gasped and slowly strode to the door. Linuin looks to be somewhat distraught, Drizzt thought, maybe because of me.

Drizzt's question was fully answered a second later when a human in woodland leathers and matted brown hair walked in, immediately seeing Drizzt and springing forward with a sneer, only to be grabbed by his still-unnerved companion. Fielder tried to struggle from Linuin's grasp as Drizzt grabbed the bottle by the neck, biting off the cork, spitting it at the human, and taking a long drink.

"OK, who called the brute squad?" Jarlaxle muttered to Entreri, whose black eyes never left the potential calamity in front of him.

Fielder's snarl suddenly turned into an unnerving smile as he backed off slightly, though Linuin's grasp remained tight.

"Well met, friend," the scraggly human said with an uncomfortable laugh that did more to reveal his rage. "Sorry you didn't cripple me, I know a very good healer."

"Glad to see it," Drizzt replied, standing up straighter and meeting Fielder's gaze. "I just hope your friend has a handy resurrection scroll."

"You villain!" the tiefling growled stepping forward and drawing a small, yet nasty-looking mace from a scabbard on his hip.

Jarlaxle readied a dagger as he saw the robed schemers fade into mist as the dwarves ran though a back door. Entreri maintained his casual posture, taking another sip from his wine while positioning his leg to spring at any time. Drizzt gently placed the bottle ob the bar as a hunting knife came in his hand and flung towards the tiefling, who parried it to the floor. His reflexes were good because he managed to parry the black scimitar hacking at him and was about to make another swing, until the mace fell from his hand and he grabbed the same arm with a shout and a clang of meal hitting the floor.

Drizzt held his scimitar at the ready while looking at the grumbling tiefling and seeing a small dagger protruding from his forearm that found the space in his armor perfectly. The half-breed fell out of the way to reveal a tall, well built gentleman in black plate armor behind him. The newcomer wore no helm, revealing his short, black hair and various scars over his handsome face and thin, salt and pepper beard. Drizzt's gaze first met the human soldier's amused expression before looking down to the large emblem on his breastplate: a black fist with rays streaming from the fingers.

Jarlaxle looked back at the scrambling ruffians running from their seats and out the back door without the slightest notion of stealth before looking back at the scene. Fielder stopped his struggling as Linuin removed his grasp entirely and regarded the newcomer in borderline fear. Soon the only sound in the room was the tiefling's occasional groan and Zalen tapping his pointed fingers against the bar while he watched; his withered face in a smile of happy amusement.

"Now, now," the soldier said carefully, his gray eyes trailing to the tiefling, who successfully removed the dagger, "there is no need for hasty action."

His gaze slowly focused on Drizzt, who casually leaned against the bar with a drawn scimitar still in one hand and taking the bottle in the other.

"It appears we have all had a small misunderstanding," the human continued, taking a few steps forward. "We should not be coming in here with weapons drawn. We should be coming in this fine establishment for respite and refreshment…and perhaps courteous, diplomatic conversation?"

Drizzt sneered and sheathed his sword, pulling himself straighter as he lifted the bottle and took a small sip.

"You have something to say?" Drizzt asked, staring at the man, while keeping Jarlaxle and Entreri in his peripheral vision. Both his companions still looked relaxed, yet on the ready for something. He could have sword he saw Jarlaxle signing to their third companion something about: _fifty gold if he kills the tiefling._

"For starters, I must not be as rude as my companions and actually introduce myself," the human said, putting a black, gauntleted hand over his heart. "I am Gherbod Rilseveu Wenthias III, faithful servant and Blackguard of Bane."

Drizzt gave an uncomfortable smirk at the introduction. So this was the one who left the note and the dead body the night before.

"This gentleman to my left," he continued, motioning to the tiefling, who was grabbing his arm and muttering an incantation that made the blood flow stop, "is my son the Most Terrible Reverend Toamroth; a most able, if not unfortunately tempered cleric of the Dark Lord. The two gentlemen to my right are Master Linuin Daisner, a finely skilled evoker, and Master Arik Madsalar, a ranger unlike yourself…Master Do'Urden."

Drizzt gave a small snicker, but the flames in his eyes burned hotter at the mention of his name. This bastard had done his homework…too well.

"I understand that you all have already met," the Blackguard said, "though under unfortunate circumstances."

"Yes I do call having my people attacked and my border defiled with mangled corpses 'unfortunate circumstances," Drizzt said, sticking his nose higher in the air.

"I cannot apologize enough for the actions of my errant son," Wenthias said, giving the now healed Toamroth a calm, yet searing glare. "Nor can I express any pride in the tactics of my servants."

Fielder let out a muted chuckle while keeping his gaze on Drizzt.

"Both our respective clans have so much to contribute to one another," Wenthias continued.

"I couldn't agree more," Drizzt added in a strained tone. "Your apology is accepted, though I am not known for being forgiving."

"Perfectly understood, my liege," the Blackguard said with a small bow that could have been meant in mocking or respect. "I would rather focus on more constructive action."

"I have little time for peace summits," Drizzt said.

"As do I. No, my current focus is on a mission of great import."

Drizzt internally groaned as he looked to his companions. He could have sworn Entreri rolled his eyes while Jarlaxle smirked uncomfortably.

"A mission to your god?" he asked, though he pretty much knew the rest.

"A hunt for the sworn enemy of Baaayynne!" Toamroth barked, giving a grotesquely drawn out pronunciation of his god's name that made Entreri catch a chuckle in his throat. "A villain who besmirches…"

"An enemy of my house who needs simple justice, nothing more," Wenthias piped up, putting a hand over his son's arm and squeezing slightly over the still-sensitive area.

Drizzt bit his lip, having some idea who that enemy might be.

"It is really a mess you should not make your own," Wenthias added, "though unfortunately it has already. I do give my apologies and unfortunately this might not be the greatest time to discuss matters of diplomacy."

He turned to Zalen and threw a few gold coins on the bar before turning to his minions and motioning his head towards the door. Linuin grabbed Fielder's shoulders again and pushed him forward. Fielder shoved his shoulders back, dislodging the elf's hands while giving Drizzt one last glare before moving forward.

"I shall not forgive the injuries you have done to me," Toamroth growled, swinging his mangled tail towards Drizzt before meeting Sir Wenthias' stern glare and walking in the direction of his companions.

"I bid you adieu, my honorable Rogue Prince," Wenthais said with another bow, giving cursory glances to the other two still sitting casually, yet warily at their table. "A great day it shall be when the sons of Bane and the sons of Vhaeraun unite."

He turned on his high heel and walked out the door, his minions reluctantly following and giving their final glares to the smiling Rogue Prince as they disappeared out the door.

"You're a popular one," Zalen said, shattering the hard silence with a lid cackle that turned into a hacking cough.

Drizzt sighed and looked at his companions, who visibly relaxed before giving him calm, yet pointed glares.

It was going to be an interesting journey.


	8. Rules of Engagement

**The Lesser Evil: Hooligan's Holiday**

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of R.A. Salvatore/Wizards of the Coast ©. I don't own them; I'm just examining all their possibilities.

**Chapter 8: Rules of Engagement**

His blood was pumping through his ears; one of those moments where he could have taken down the whole wall and felt absolutely nothing but more anger. Drizzt leaned heavily against the wall and took a few deep breaths as his mind cleared a little; finally. He was growing tired of these moments; moments where he couldn't get a hold of himself…to save his own life. He hated feeling like this; it was completely counterproductive.

A quick ear to the door told Drizzt no one had snuck inside their room; a good thing too, he wasn't too much in the mood for killing anyone. Well, unless that person was a Blackguard and his hoary minions. With a groan, he put the small, iron key in one lock, then tapped on the hidden lock at the bottom in an intricate pattern. The door opened on cue.

The drow slowly stepped inside, letting his infrared vision set in and scan the simple room. There was a modest bed against the back wall covered by a brown, wool blanket with a small end table to the side. A small oil lamp hung from a metal sconce on the side wall while a large, hinged window took up a good portion of the other: a hinged window already locked with four different, inconspicuous bolts. The moon was covered by the thick clouds that had set in, leaving the room completely dark. He closed the door, bolting it in two places and walking over to the bed, reaching under to find the requisite white, feather cushion more appropriately used by any elven patrons.

Drizzt knew he was alone, a feeling that ended a second later when he sensed the presence of another just behind him. He came slowly to his feet and let his peripheral vision see the dagger slicing towards him just in time to meet it with Icingdeath. The blades met with a muted clang as Entreri twisted the flat of his blade to meet the dull side of the scimitar. Drizzt gave his companion a look of readiness, though Entreri's gaze softened as he drew his dagger back.

"Nice try," the drow said with a tired smirk, expecting some sneer or insult in reply.

Artemis actually returned the smirk.

"I should have known better," the assassin replied.

Drizzt cocked an eyebrow, taken more than a bit aback by this reaction; was the human actually relaxed? It was almost too much to bear.

"Wow, two compliments in one day," Drizzt replied with almost a sneer, "are you sure that little trip to the Netherworld didn't damage your lovely personality?"

"No that little trip to the Netherworld made me more easily amused," Entreri said.

"And more insane," Drizzt replied, his heart slowing only slightly yet his mind not clearing at all.

"I should be saying the same to you," the assassin said. "I think you should be a tad more grateful: I should have cracked your back with the butt end of my sword for all the trouble you caused back in the wood, not to mention bringing your new friends into a rather public place and getting ready to beat the Hells out of each other."

His smile took on the venom that Drizzt was used to. It was a sight that warmed his heart a bit.

"I have actually been in a good mood lately," he continued in a tone that almost resembled a calm hiss, "though don't expect it to last for long."

Drizzt squared off against the assassin, seeing the same cold look in his eyes behind a warm, almost beaming smile. He gave an uncomfortable laugh and slammed the wall with the heel of his hand.

Entreri's smile widened, though it looked to be an expression of deep annoyance.

"That wouldn't happen to be the same tiefling…" the human said.

"Yes," Drizzt groaned through gritted teeth.

"And that dandy in fine armor was the same one who…"

"Yes."

"Lovely."

Drizzt leaned against the wall, letting his heart slow a little. He came up here almost immediately after Sir Wenthias and his minions left. It was like a bad reunion of enemies from different places all uniting as one against him. If he hadn't moved quickly enough, the ranger called Fielder could have struck a more serious blow; a thought that infuriated him. Adding to that insult was the appearance of the damned tiefling who attacked his people, or rather attacked him. It was a train of thought that made him feel more like a fool.

Entreri could never read minds, but by the obvious look on the drow's face, he could tell exactly what he was thinking: reasoning he could relate to, though reasoning he could despise. The assassin leaned in and put his face into Drizzt's.

"Which one of them put that nasty gash in your tunic last night; the one that looked like it was a lot worse before the potion?" Entreri asked.

"That would be the human," Drizzt replied, taking a few breaths to calm a little.

"And now him and the tiefling are joining the soldier of a rival god to go after our quarry," the assassin continued. "That just tears at your insides, doesn't it? Makes you want to take your swords and find every way you can to make them suffer in the most horrible ways for the injuries they have done."

Drizzt looked up at him with a confused, yet irritated expression.

"The injury of besting you for at least one battle," Entreri added with a sneer, "a slight you take as not only a personal insult, but a damnation of your own skills."

Drizzt felt a chill down his spine as he looked at the assassin's calm smile; the look in his black eyes saying everything.

"Take my advice, old friend," Artemis Entreri continued, "if you choose to battle any one of them again, so it for any reason besides your own stupidity."

Drizzt smiled.

"You know, I still have that scar on my back," Drizzt replied.

"And I bet it makes you look handsome," came the dour reply.

The drow snickered and pushed himself from the wall, coming back to the bed and pulling out the cushion.

Entreri leaned casually against the door frame, casually looking at the floor with a deep sigh.

"We will see them again," he said. "Call it gut instinct."

Call it an instinct likely picked up from wherever I was, Entreri thought with no small amount of apprehension. The chill he felt when seeing the black form in the forest was the same chill he felt as the tiefling entered the room. Both were related: he was convinced of this. He didn't know how his return from death affected him, though for some reason he got the same feeling every time he was in the presence of an entity from the lower planes. Maybe like was meeting like, though he never went to the Hells; he was locked in…

Drizzt had turned to the bed in the perfect time to avoid Entreri's visible flinch. His face grew hot as he looked away from the drow, fully realizing such a reaction had not been seen; fortunately for both of them.

Drizzt laid the cushion on the floor against the wall opposite the bed.

"I know," he replied, plopping down on the feather mattress and leaning his head against the wall. "Call that a gut instinct."

"And my gut instinct tells me again that you are going to be a little cooler in your temperment from now on," Entreri said in a low hiss. "Lest your companions stop tolerating your bloodlust and just kill you when you lose control again."

Entreri walked to the bed, removing his boots and setting them by the wall sitting down on the bed. He unfastened his weapon belt and threw it on the ground, taking his jeweled dagger from its scabbard and giving it a back hand shove into the wall while looking at Drizzt with a tired smirk.

Drizzt's smile melted. He knew he had been warned.

---------------

Jarlaxle adjusted his seat on the side of the stone sea shell, making sure he kept out of the immediate spray from the magnificent Four Dolphin's Fountain. His posture was forcibly casual; trying to make sure he would stay another quiet, unnoticed schemer. His red eyes scanned the perimeter, keeping out of eye contact with the two other red-robed undesirables, Red Wizards most likely, who whispered amongst themselves; voices that sounded like low-pitched twittering and nothing more. It was a sound that amused him for a second, but only for a second.

The mercenary pried his gaze from his people-watching to focus on more important matters at hand: the simple book lying in his lap, supported by his crossed leg yet keeping only to his view. It was merely an empty, leather-bound journal, yet inside was concealed something of much more import; the map Gromph Baenre had given him to the alleged location of Moril. He looked down at the brown parchment, tying to follow the various lines and dots to predict his next route, yet for some reason his eyes regularly darted back to the fountain, or the unsavories around it, or the town itself; wandering as much as his mind did at the moment .

Jarlaxle removed his great, plumed hat, setting it next to him and rubbing his bald head. The residual ache from the previous night's merriment, what he officially dubbed as his "birthday party," had faded, but was replaced with a new feeling that had nothing to do with any outside source: tension. It was a state he denied at first, yet the tightness in his neck and shoulders could not be ignored any longer. It was a feeling that only increased itself once he realized it was happening.

Jarlaxle was a creature who existed in a perpetual state of calm; he had to for the sake of his own skin. He always had to stay in complete control, staying ahead of the game and planning his strategy to the finest detail even before the concept of the game could ever arise. It was a state to which he was accustomed, one that signaled a state of normality. It was a state that had become even more alien in the past two days.

He sighed hard and tried to get back to his reading, though the fact he couldn't organize his thoughts was creating another distraction in itself. He had to keep it together, but the idea of losing that control completely frightened him; a control he had been losing for the past two days.

Now the game had changed so much in the past day that he had to come up with a completely new strategy; likely five seconds behind everything. Every cliff on which he had a toehold was beginning to crumble and he couldn't deny it. He had great plans for Bani Pilazi's guild; now those were being watched by hostile characters who already killed his equally skilled companion, though if only for a few minutes. His regular existence in Menzoberranzan, a place where, despite its constant scheming and chaos, was still his stable home. Now his position was threatened; Gromph blackmailing him to do his bidding, though even that arrangement was riddled with potential traps. He wanted to rely on Gromph's proposed bounty; a chest full of black diamonds could take him anywhere he wished, yet that cup was likely poisoned as well. Cormanthor was his next haven, but he was still being watched by Gromph's lackeys, all waiting to return to their master and tell him of all the blasphemies he was committing against Lady Lolth. Then there was the new factor of these new enemies Drizzt had made; this group of Banite ruffians who also hunted Moril as well. Ruffians who could likely be training bows on him waiting to strike at any second.

Jarlaxle sighed hard and looked at the cobblestone ground, cursing himself for thinking in such negative terms. It was the swiftness of all these events, he reasoned. Now it is time to come up with a better strategy. It was a thought that brought little comfort. He knew he allowed himself too many distractions, became to easily shaken to the point where his two companions were even taking jabs at him; jabs in words that could easily become literal jabs to the back with actual weapons. He doubted they would do such a thing, but the chaotic emotions of both could make it even more inevitable. Once again, a control he was losing.

This had been his state for the past few hours. After the Brute Squad, as he had dubbed them, left the tavern, the tension in his body only grew. He wanted to scream at Drizzt for making yet another set of enemies, yet this group had more to do with the situation than the younger drow's horrific temper. Entreri had casually finished his glass of wine, saying nothing, yet Jarlaxle could see the anger behind his calm visage of late, and then went up to their room to sleep. Drizzt followed soon after with a more obvious scowl. No one said a word to each other. Jarlaxle was left alone with the unknown dark elf who ran the establishment, another slimy character he wanted nothing to do with, though he proved useful for local information, even if it was information that cost him a few more coin than usual. Then there was the fact the other dark elf was proving more tight-lipped than Jarlaxle liked, or could manage. Once again, his control was slipping for some reason he had to find for the sake of his own skin. Jarlaxle's path took him out into the street, his nose trying to sort through the rotting hay and manure of various creatures to try to steal as much fresh air he could.

The Four Dolphins Fountain was his haven now; a structure where water flowed from a large, stone shell where four graceful dolphins leapt. The structure that had been enchanted to ward against any divination spells; leaving the fountain's various visitors to their respective business around the fountain and the stone courtyard surrounding it in complete privacy. He regularly inhaled the residual fresh air left on the tail end of the spring, the soothing scene clearing his senses a little more. He laughed in spite of himself and looked back down at the map. It was time to actually focus on business.

The most direct route to the Giant's Run Mountains would be to travel the length of Rauthauvyr's Road to Urmlaspyr, charter a boat to Westgate, the haven of pirates and rogues. It would only be a few days travel from there to reach their final destination. Their road was easy…too easy.

His keen vision scanned every feature on the map; every marking for hills, rivers, plains, and especially every tiny dot indicating one of the Clown Cultist's possible temples. None existed in the entire region; the nearest one appeared to be in the Reaching Woods hundreds of leagues past the Giant's Run. It would be easier to go to the original destination that all the way out there. If only the other idiots weren't so adamant about leaving the horses.

His red eyes scanned the relatively simple road ahead of them, and then trailed back up in the direction of Scardale Town…then right across a green dot that he hadn't noticed until now. He pulled the book in closer, looking around to make sure no one was watching him, then looking back down. A few miles away from Surd, right on the peninsula into the Dragonmere, a small, yet significant green dot almost appeared suddenly as if it had popped right from the page; a mark signifying one of Moril's main training camps. It was off Rauthauvyr's Road; off any main roads itself for that matter. It would require about half a days travel over flat plains, yet the way did not look too difficult.

Jarlaxle closed the blank journal carefully, making a mental note of the exact location he had seen earlier. He then looked up to the sky to see it still the shade of pitch black it was when they first entered the city, the darkness even more profound by the gathering clouds. Sunrise was still many hours away and he still needed his Trance. Time was either going to be their best friend or worst enemy. Hopefully the Brute Squad decided to be wise and leave town…never to see any of them again.

He sighed low and stood up. Entreri was likely asleep and hopefully Drizzt was taking his Reverie at some point, though the idea of both actually taking their respective rests at the same time while both were in the same room was laughable.

It was an idea that brought another thought to his mind. Maybe the secret to gaining some control could be found in his two companions. No one understood the concept of instability better than those two; one a former goodly hero who embraced the cruelty of his kin and lived as a professional killer, the second an ordered child of complete discipline who had literally arisen from the dead. Could they provide him inspiration? It was most likely, yet they could also serve him as well; both two of the most legendary swordsmen in all of Faerûn…and all of them his close friends and worst enemies?

Jarlaxle sighed and rose to his feet. Time, no matter if it stood with or against them, was still a master best catered to. Just like all the others, he thought with another sigh.

-------------

Artemis was fast asleep.

This was completely evident by the slow rise and fall of his chest. For some reason, Drizzt paid attention to his breathing, likely making sure he was still alive. Call it a protective instinct.

Drizzt leaned against the wall of their shabby, yet surprisingly clean room. He closed his eyes for the tenth time and let his body relax enough to enter Reverie, but his eyes always sprung open against the wave of thoughts running through his head. He leaned forward and took a deep breath. Normally the chaos of his thoughts never impeded his sleep, but now they were getting to the point where they were too active.

For some reason image of Sir Wenthias' calm visage stayed locked in his mind. He tried to dismiss the idea, trying to pry them out with the thought of why Zalen didn't have barmaids, though the image still appeared. Entreri was right, of course; Wenthias was an armored bully. He had no idea the drow and his companions were also chasing after Moril…but how could he be sure? In the back of his soul, his deeper instincts screamed at him; his encounter with the Blackguard and his three minions, for some odd reason, did not seem an accident. Drizzt couldn't fully determine why a small part of his logic continued bringing this idea forth over and over again. They were ruffians, period. Sir Gherbod Wenthias was no different than any other haughty noble leading around a group of thugs to do his dirty work. Besides, many, many others were looking for Moril; many of which he would likely fight on the road. Why was the Banite any different?

It was a question he asked himself over and over again yet receiving the same answer in the back of his brain: these are your rivals for the prize. Maybe it was the aura that exuded from the Blackguard, maybe it was the pure calmness of their encounter, or maybe it was some preternatural instinct that was pointing him in this direction.

The drow gave a long sigh, throwing his hands to his side in calm frustration. He wanted to have a smoke to calm his thoughts a little, but it would wake his snippy companion. Drink would do him no good: it would only increase the fuzziness and the urge to run aimlessly through an alcohol induced fog for the answer. It wasn't like he could just enter Trance and let his thoughts work themselves out in his relaxed state. Drizzt closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths, allowing his muscles to relax slightly. Some meditation was better than none at all.

Too many things were happening today to be a series of coincidences: Vhaeraun appeared to him demanding service, Mazn'reysla left Vhaeraun's favored weapon in his back pack, and he meets a Blackguard of another dark deity who was also after Moril. It was all too much to be coincidence; someone was trying to tell him something.

His eyes shot open at the realization. He sat still for another second, and then looked at his backpack lying against the wall right next to him; the backpack containing the nice shortsword he discovered earlier. Drizzt had wanted to put that detail out of his mind; there was only one reason Mazn'reysla could have put that sword there and all of it having to do with the visit he received during his Reverie the other night. He was actually being called into surface…and the thought scared him.

It wasn't as if he wanted to avoid or go against his deity; it was his deity had never given him any direct demands before, let alone in his full avatar form without summoning. Now Vhaeraun's favored weapon was in his backpack. Now he was facing down a servant of another dark god who also wanted Moril; a god rumored to have alliances with his own. It was playing out too perfectly.

Drizzt grimaced and reached over, snatching the backpack and shoving the flap open. Taking a deep breath, he reached in carefully and clasped the hilt, slowly drawing it from the bag, which he kicked away. He lifted the sheathed sword before his eyes, admiring the twisting grip carved into the hilt that ended at the smooth ball of the pommel. The crosspiece was smooth, the ends bearing small spikes wrapped in metallic vines. The style was of surface influence, almost elven in its intricacy. He could feel power from the weapon, yet could not bring himself to fully concentrate on its essence.

This was a sword of his god, yet he was reluctant to wield it. It was another thought that laughed at him among the many others. Was this cowardice? No, that feeling did not exist at all. Reluctance? Hardly. He was willing to serve Vhaeraun however he could…though it was always on his own terms. He could slaughter his enemies with neither remorse nor regrets, yet they were also his enemies as well; the slaves of Lolth he gleefully cut apart while still alive and the minions of Eilistraee…who always reminded him of his own past hypocrisy.

It was like his indifferent worship to Mielikki for all those years; he needed something to define the emotions in his heart, to validate his existence through the veneration of a like-minded deity while serving her in deed. Now he worshipped a different deity in the same manner; a vicious god who would not tolerate selfish indifference in his followers. Mielikki practically ignored him in all the years he wore her symbol around his neck, only allowing him to pat a passing unicorn in Mooshie's Grove. Now Vhaeraun had not only visited him, but literally hoisted him by the neck and demanded his service. Drizzt looked at the shortsword with a hard sigh. The time of reckoning was upon him: he could run, making another drow deity into an enemy while he sought the protection of…a goodly church? A rival deity? Even if he did, could he ever take that veneration seriously as well?

No. The very idea of running turned his stomach. He may have served himself through serving Vhaeraun, but the Masked God was in essence another friend whose presence kept him sane; though it never seemed enough. The emptiness still remained, he thought to himself with a small shiver, allowing himself a moment of deep examination that he had not allowed himself in too long. Little had changed in his mind since the love of his life was killed; only he had nice, convenient names to put on his mindlessness now and a nice troupe of onlookers to encourage his rage. All of it was proving meaningless; one series of slaughters after another with little to actually keep him interested. He actually realized he felt somewhat guilty for all the lives he took; guilty for wasting lives for no purpose besides his whim. There was no passion in killing any more.

He needed to fid a new passion, a new purpose; something that actually made him feel like he was accomplishing something with his existence.

"Play time's over, little boy," the Masked God said during his last visit.

Only now was that beginning to make sense.

Drizzt narrowed his eyes, placing a hand on the sheath and sliding it off, fully revealing the sharp blade underneath. The time for action was upon him and he had to prove his true mettle, lest his own selfishness and fear take him. He was a soldier, dammit: the true drow fighter he naively swore to be as a child and a role he gladly took entering full adulthood. If he had nothing else in his pathetic existence beside that, he was at least stepping in the right direction. It was another thought that brought a smile to his lips; this was a rite of passage. In a little over twenty years he would be into his first century, a boy becoming a true man. He had already survived through the horrors of Menzoberranzan and the idealistic life of a goodly ranger. Now he was a cold, powerful creature; a true drow in mind, body, and spirit ready to meet his fate.

"Let me in on your little plan, you masked son of a spidery cunt," Drizzt whispered with a sneer. "Just know I'm ready for your little tricks."

A small chill fell over his form; a chill that felt almost welcoming. The shadows in the corner seemed to gather and in their midst formed a subtle, yet unmistakable shape: a black half mask that almost seemed to turn up in a smile before fading out with the darkness.

Drizzt smiled back, sheathed the shortsword, and felt it slip into his lap as his head hung forward in a peaceful Reverie. As his mind slipped into the peaceful fog, he swore he heard a woman screaming.

--------------

It was a hand, it had to be. The icy fingers clasped the scruff of his neck firmly; claws almost digging into his skin. He hung limply, though he knew he would not fall: the hand grabbing him was too strong. Below him was a mass of shadows, yet he knew the sound; the Abyss help him he knew the sound well.

Artemis wanted to be away from here, or allow his soul to pass to oblivion. Anything but be here again. Yet his keen ears still heard the horrific sound; millions upon millions of souls screaming out for rescue or redemption or anger, though all of them had the same fate. He closed his eyes tightly, but he had to look; it was almost demanded of him. Entreri pried his eyes open and the image came through the mist:

The Wall

The wall of bodies all reaching out into nothingness; all screaming, all denying their fate, but all damned regardless. Though it was the weak sighs of those who had just given up that scared him the most, or the complete silence among the din of the soul that just ceased to exist. The sight became clearer. There were other humans there, elves of all color and persuasion, dwarves, gnomes, orcs; the list went on and on as did the height and width of the wall.

And he was floating above it, completely naked. He could still feel the moss on his skin.

No, it is not there, he thought. It couldn't be; I am above it now. I am not part…

The hand lowered him slowly. He could see the twisted faces of all those he had killed, all those he had betrayed, all those who molested him from beyond once and was glad he returned.

"This isn't happening," he gasped to the warm air. "Wake up, Artemis, wake up!"

The icy chill faded. The hand removed itself. The world faded to complete blackness. The warm air was now his cold bed.

Entreri let out a long gasp as he managed to open his eyes to his room in The Faerie's Tale. He was lying on his side, the cheap wool blanket tangled in his legs as he looked at the splintered, wooden door. It was all a dream. Only that.

He let out a few more gasping breaths, trying to get his bearings together yet not announce himself too much. The gasping breath turned into a sharp cough as his dry throat was tickled by the thick odor of clove smoke. For a second he was thankful his roommate was smoking despite every subtle instruction he made against it.

"Bastard," he whispered with the hint of a smile, turning to his stomach and seeing Drizzt.

The drow was leaning against the sill of window looking out at the rising orange ball in the sky. The hinged glass was partially open as his hand held his lit clove stick outside while he blew out a thin stream into the open air. Drizzt looked absently behind him and saw said prickly companion fully awake and glaring at him, though his usual glare of death seemed muted. Sweat poured down his pale forehead and bare torso as his eyes were practically bloodshot. His already pale complexion was almost completely bone white.

Artemis hastily came to a sit, throwing off the blanket and coming to his feet. Drizzt sat forward, keeping his clove stick out the window and greeting his companion with a calm gaze that did more to reflect his bleariness. If he wanted to draw swords over such a small thing, let him.

The assassin kneeled down and faced him directly with a look of calm irritation, yet there was something else mixed in his glare: some…silent appreciation?

"I'm sorry," Drizzt said sarcastically, "did I wake you?"

Entreri responded with an unnerving smirk. He then came to a full stand, yet still faced the drow.

"You shouldn't do that, you know," he said in a tone of irritated scolding that almost sounded like it could turn to a growl.

Drizzt looked at him, and then nodded slowly with an eye roll.

"I would prefer that both of you had plenty of breath for your mission," a melodious voice piped in from the door.

Entreri looked back at Jarlaxle, trying to hide his momentary surprise, though both elves saw his slight shiver at the mercenary's sudden appearance.

"You flinched," Drizzt whispered loudly.

Entreri shot him a death glare, yet was only met with a calm smile. He took a deep breath and managed a weak smirk before facing his second companion.

"So what death trap will our fearless navigator lead us into today?" Drizzt said, taking a long draw from his clove and blowing a stream of smoke in the assassin's direction.

"That depends on what new friends our resident slaughter-fiend will invite along," Jarlaxle said, giving Drizzt a pointed glare.

Drizzt rolled his eyes again and gave a sarcastic laugh.

"Yes, yes, yes, laugh it up, little drowling," Jarlaxle snipped with an uncomfortable smile, "because of our little meeting last night, the game has changed a little."

The mercenary drew the clown-faced disk from his belt, said the command, and set it down on the floor as it spinned and revealed the map of the area.

"I say we avoid the main roads for at least the next day," Jarlaxle said pointing to the area around Rauthauvyr's Road. "I just found a shortcut that leads down the coast of the Dragonmere, so we will make good time while hopefully avoiding Bane's brute squad. It will be over flat land, though away from any major trade roads or towns for at least the next day or two. In that case, this is the perfect time to restock and sharpen your blades."

Jarlaxle then recalled something he had completely forgotten about since the beginning of the journey. He took off his hat and reached inside, pulling out two velvet bags and tossing them to each companion.

"I was rooting through my stores and I found these," he continued.

Drizzt and Entreri looked at each other, a gesture that bothered Jarlaxle for some odd reason. The two then slowly opened the string of the bags and looked down at the black, gemmed pendants inside.

"They are wards against mental control and manipulation," the mercenary said. "A nice added tool against an enchanter like Moril or whoever else we may be going up against."

Drizzt dumped his pendant on the floor, while Entreri slowly drew his out of the bag, examining it and looking to make mental notes. Jarlaxle said another command word, causing the image to sink back into the disk, which he scooped up.

"We leave in two hours," he said. "At least long enough to give the Brute Squad a nice head start, lest the smell of our companion's trail of corpses bring them in."

"Followed by the smell of his own after we leave it on the side of the road," Entreri added with a mocking smile.

Drizzt took a long drag and glared at both. The game had changed indeed.


	9. One Web Unravels

**The Lesser Evil: Hooligan's Holiday**

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of R.A. Salvatore/Wizards of the Coast ©. I don't own them; I'm just examining all their possibilities.

**Chapter 9: One Web Unravels**

"I agree with you, Jarlaxle," Drizzt said in the most sarcastic tone he could manage, feeling the every word pass through the annoying itch in the back of his throat, "this is the ideal place to rest. It will allow those villagers down there a good hour before they come out to chase us around again."

He took off his backpack and threw it on the tightly packed, black sand that made the long stretch of shoreline. The very effort made him sweat a little, another sign walking for fifteen hours through cold, wet air was not doing the best for his health.

"Ever the optimist," Jarlaxle replied cheerily looking out at the expanse of sea before them. "Think of it as training; the faster you can run, the better shape you are in."

"Hardly reassuring," Entreri replied, drawing Charon's Claw and testing the sharpness of the blade. He would have to put a whetstone to it soon, though beside a surging sea with heavy, cold moisture in the air may not have been the best place for that.

The assassin's black eyes trailed up to the night sky that took varying shades of gray and black. Mingled with the gloom was a dull orange hue emanating from the lights down the shoreline and more pointedly accented by the bright beam of a powerful lighthouse on the cliffs above. In the midst of the fog and darkness, he could make out a few small houses right on the water; a small fishing village most likely. He looked up one end of the long beach, and then down the other, noting the long expanse of small cliffs and large rocks scarred over millennia by the sea's ferocity. A strong, salty wind blew in from the Dragonmere hard enough to make him steady his legs on the sandy ground while feeling his black ponytail whip his back repeatedly. Judging by this and the creeping, moist chill in the air, a storm was coming, small one most likely though one that could prove annoying given their current situation.

He looked back and saw Jarlaxle remove his hat with a small amount of difficulty in the wind as Drizzt knelt down on one knee and looked down the shore, his long white hair still bearing residual moisture from the past day's travel, whipping around and making his mane even wilder. The ranger pulled his cloak closer to his body to block the chill. The air had been merely cool all day, but the evening chill was beginning to make itself known through his already vulnerable form. He looked at Entreri, who looked up at the clouds and returned his gaze with a sour expression. Drizzt nodded though gave a small shrug. It was an exchange of looks that communicated so much in a few seconds; this was the worst time and the worst place to stop, though it was the first opportunity any of them had to do so since leaving Scardale Town early that morning.

As Jarlaxle insisted, they had avoided any of the main roads and found themselves traversing over at least a hundred miles of flat cleared land that composed the entire expanse of Sembia, an area that slightly annoyed Drizzt in its mere existence. Legend had it that Sembia used to be Moondale, a pretty stretch of wood that was cleared out in favor of human desire for easier trade and building expansive castles; any charm it once had fell with the poor trees. This sentiment was further pounded into his being by the perpetual cloud of wet fog that seemed to follow them everywhere. They managed to shake it for a few minutes, but not only had it found them, it brought along a bigger, less amused friend.

This land had been their road…to the chagrin of all three travelers, especially the two thin elves who felt the cold and wet a little more, though one was pretending not to notice. Jarlaxle remained their cheery guide: leading them through the strange land…and over a guide who led them over portions of noble's demesnes and small, gentleman's farms. All of these lands had at least some human presence and no one was too receptive to the appearance of two drow merely wandering through. It had been like this all day long; one farmer greeting them with a pitchfork here, two sentries training bows on them there, and so on. To the three seasoned warriors, it was all more an annoyance than any real threat, though an annoyance that came every hour or less. By now it was just wearying and the threat of fouler weather was not making matters any better.

Jarlaxle by now was used to death threats from both his companions. At first both seemed to support the idea of staying off the main roads, given the ever-present threat of the Bane worshippers finding them and causing some inconvenience. By dusk, many drawn swords and many sneezes later, Drizzt took the regular habit of muttering ideas for unique ways to torture his kinsman and Entreri was regularly grumbling under his breath; a welcome change from the blissfully calm creature he had been since waking up from death. For some reason Jarlaxle was relieved by this; it gave the journey a sense of normality while giving him a great opportunity to break from his sudden melancholy by thinking up some witty retorts for both while maneuvering their path. The mercenary strode across the blackened beach, clearly noting the silent exchange between his companions and almost savoring their respective disgusted expressions. It was just like old times.

"This is the perfect place for rest," Jarlaxle said, breathing in the moist, salty air that greeted him back by sending him on his heels for a few steps. "I say we linger here for at least the next couple hours if we can, though be on your guard. The elements are likely against us, as well as those simple folk in that village down there."

"You are ever so optimistic," Drizzt groaned, punctuating his point with a loud sneeze.

"If we rest, we need to do so in a sheltered spot," Entreri said tiredly, eyeing the expanse of cliffs around them. "Judging by these clouds, things are going to become very inconvenient soon."

Jarlaxle smiled in agreement, his gaze turning to both his companions. Entreri was covered in a thick layer of moisture; the wetness beading off his velvet cloak and gradually dripping from his goatee. He still looked ready for anything, yet Jarlaxle could see the subtle strains of weariness in his face. The party member in the worst shape was Drizzt, who was obviously showing the beginning signs of a small cold. He had surprisingly gone all day without even raising his swords in offense, a unique sign of self restraint that could quickly wash out with this tide.

"Quite right," Jarlaxle said, putting his hat back on in such a way so it would not be easily blown off. "I volunteer that position, since the weather does not seem to affect me as much as some people."

He turned to Drizzt and saw him wiping his nose on his sleeve.

"And you are the gods damned navigator," the ranger added in almost a low growl that soon turned into a cough.

"Well yes, that too," Jarlaxle said with a dramatic sigh. "And our wonderfully watery surroundings are inspiring my natural instinct. You are free to observe if you truly wish."

"I did not need to know that," Entreri groaned.

Drizzt rolled his eyes. Jarlaxle could not hear what his young friend muttered next, though he could have sworn he saw his lips form the popular drow phrase "_vith'os_." The mercenary chuckled as he walked in the opposite direction.

"You're coming back in half an hour," Entreri called to Jarlaxle in a tone of finality. No one could afford to wander around alone for too long, especially not here.

Jarlaxle responded with a small bow before turning on his heel and walking down the shoreline, disappearing behind a long cropping of rock. Drizzt's gaze remained in his companion's direction before he rolled his eyes and sighed. He sat down on the sand and laid his back against an outcropping of rock, feeling the requisite scratch in the back of his throat that made him only feel worse.

Entreri drew his dagger, noting how the edge was fine, though could use to be out of the cold wetness. He looked back at Drizzt, who had already pulled the silver flask from his belt and took a long sip. The assassin made a habit of keeping tabs on how many times his companion had taken out this flask. Entreri normally turned a blind, yet glaring eye on the drow's heavy drinking; he never became intoxicated and had even shown impeccable reflexes and reactions even after putting away half a bottle, a trait Jarlaxle insisted was inherited. On the road, however, it would not be tolerated at all. Too much was at stake…and the normally disciplined assassin hated to be reminded of his own reckless drinking after awakening from…

"I ever find you even remotely numb from that damned thing," he called back, "your next gulp will be a yummy spirit of belladonna."

Drizzt gave an annoyed chuckle in response, though he did not doubt that promise in the least, though he had little desire to drink any more regardless. His cold was enough to numb his senses. Besides he vowed to be a little easier on the elixir from now on. Too much was at stake here.

Entreri's threat was only half full; if the drow let his guard down in the slightest, he would steal the flask and put an herb in it that would make him violently ill for an hour; not enough to kill him, just teach him a lesson. He glanced back and saw the cap being screwed back on and the flask returning to the drow's belt. Lavender eyes turned up for a brief second to see the black glare still on him and then turning back to the ocean.

"Have you become my chaperone?" Drizzt asked.

"Hardly," Entreri replied with a sneer, waving the dagger in Drizzt's direction. "Think of me as your conscience, your reason for staying focused."

Drizzt laughed again, a laugh that turned into a cough.

Entreri sheathed the dagger, giving the drow another glare as he turned around and scanned the houses down the shore. He did not think of this as babysitting; he considered it protecting his investment. The typically callous assassin had invested too much effort and energy in this one for the past decade, countless amounts of spilled blood, traveled miles, and emotions he would have preferred never existed; jealousy, deep-seated rage, personal pride, and…deep respect? Friendly concern, if that was even possible?

He often thought of his old associate, the halfling Dondon Tigerwillies; a master thief who had become so taken by his many vices that he lived the rest of his years a bloated slob who did nothing but eat, drink, and sample flesh. Every time he saw Drizzt Do'Urden, his friend, his former rival, a reflection of himself in too many ways, take too many pulls from a bottle, take a whore in his bed every night, or go on a spree of vicious slaughter, he was always reminded of Dondon, except it was much worse. It was a master warrior, whose perfect skill taunted him for too long, walking down a path of self-destruction.

Entreri leaned against a high rock, digging his fingernails into the porous, sandy stone as he tried desperately to clear his thoughts. Why should he care at all? Why didn't he put a dagger in the drow the first time he saw him swigging from a bottle? Then came the thought that disturbed him most of all: why did he still stay at the side of this person who killed too lightly for the sake of bloodshed? Why did he insist on training him in his art, go to Cormanthor with him when the disciplined assassin knew Drizzt would only go on one slaughter spree after another?

Because you know you can fix that horrible image in the mirror, his thoughts screamed past his mental defenses. Because you can make him more like you; finally stop seeing him as a lacking reflection and make you feel more like a worthy individual. You can change him; you know this…and you have actually started to care.

It was a line of reasoning that Artemis tried to push out even more, yet he started to admit made perfect sense. It was after he insisted on taking Drizzt as an apprentice that the drow's temper calmed down significantly. In fact, during those months, he rarely drank and regularly trained. It had only been within the past three months that Drizzt had started letting himself go…three months since the year anniversary of his wife's death.

He winced at the realization, feeling the fool for not seeing the pattern before. Artemis Entreri had never lost a loved one; Artemis Entreri never had anyone to even remotely care about. He understood the emotion of grief; it was what made the wives and children of his victims cry out when they discovered their loved one's body after he was out of sight range, though not out of ear shot. It was only within the past few years that he even understood the concept of feeling something for another person; Jarlaxle had been his most regular companion for seven years, and despite how many times he planned his death, it did put a small pang of discomfort at the thought of him being taken down in any battle.

Maybe it was a residual effect of the Flute of Idalia; that damned piece of wood their former employer Ilnezhara had given them. Just one blown note from that flute opened his senses in a way he never liked. Under the effect of that spell, his emotions opened and he even felt affection, maybe even love. It was a form of manipulation he gave up when the flute was tossed from his pocket a few years ago and never found, though its effects occasionally lingered, though there were likely so many other reasons for his current emotions.

An old rival was now his friend, he was putting aside his pride in many, many ways…

He died.

Artemis allowed the momentary shudder rattle his being, before rubbing his wet goatee and turning back on his heel. Drizzt was now on his knees, rooting through the sand. A Black hand then emerged into the air, grasping a long piece of what looked like driftwood.

"It's dry and I have matches," the drow said. "I say we keep from freezing to death."

--------------------

Jarlaxle looked back to make sure he was completely out of sight, then climbed up a small boulder and hopped from one rock to another. A gust of wind blew from the adjacent shore as the nimble elf hopped through a small crack in the rocks. It was a crevice, nothing more, though it was wide enough to keep the wind away from three slightly built individuals.

Jarlaxle, however, had no intentions of going back and pointing his wet and weary companions in the direction of shelter. If all went to plan, their work was far from over, yet their road very well could be. He reached into his black, suede vest and produced the leather-bound journal that held his brother's map. He carefully opened the book and found the map carefully folded in the exact place indicating their location now. The map of the peninsula was not completely detailed, though it did have some topographical reliefs indicating various cliffs and hills. A fine finger traced along the shoreline to a cluster of lines indicating the cliffs they were around now to the green dot indicating Moril's temple; just a mile from Jarlaxle's current location. He made a few small indentations with a fingernail marking various large rocks he would likely pass on the way.

It would be best if he took a few paces towards the location to scout out its general vicinity before returning to his companions and bringing them in this direction; though they would need more incentive for coming further than this simple shelter. He reached in his belt and produced the metal disk bearing the image of the harlequin's mask, set it carefully in a small crevice, and said the command word. He was sure he had a simple illusion spell somewhere to make it look as if a camp was actually on this faux map.

On cue, the beam of light shot from the insignia and quickly materialized into the map of the area. Jarlaxle held the disk low lest it be spotted by any unexpected parties. His red eyes trailed to their region…and the bright red dot right over the peninsula. His stomach dropped slightly; this illusionary spell had been constructed to match the map as Gromph had given him and the dots were supposed to be a ruse. This charm, however, was indicating something completely different; Moril was but a few feet away from his location. Jarlaxle looked back down at the map, making a deeper impression at the area glowing red. The red dot then faded, leaving behind and empty space as it was before.

The dark elf said the command again and watched the map sucked into the harlequin's face. He paused for a second, his eyes scanning every crack in the surrounding rock for the appearance of any tumbling clown or worse. His more cautious mind screamed at him to leave and leave now, return to his companions and prepare for action. Honed leg muscles twitched in instinct, ready to quickly sprint in the other direction. One thing, however, held them in place; their owner's overwhelming curiosity. Jarlaxle knew it was foolish, he knew he might not be nearly as powerful as Moril; he also knew he was facing a series of cliffs where he could be carefully hidden, and his companions were only a few steps away. A part of him remembered the old adage about what curiosity did to a cat, but the adage of the little girl who followed a rabbit down a hole sounded a little more appealing.

The drow smiled, drawing a white wand from his belt and tapping himself, watching his whole form being engulfed in a gray mist which he knew made him invisible. He put the wand away and slowly crept down the outcropping of rocks, keeping his back against the cliff as his gaze repeatedly left from the coastline to the map in his hand, noting that he was but twenty feet from where the illusionary map said Moril was located. He crept along, watching out for any of the Clown Cultist's minions. Right now, it was clear and quiet…too quiet.

Jarlaxle pressed against the wall as a sudden, heavy wave swept over him. His head hung and his muscles were too tired to move. It resembled the surge of negativity that had plagued him for the past two days, though this one was suspiciously strong and, more importantly, not brought on by his own guilt and doubts. It did, however, feel exactly the same: the anxious sadness that kept him from thinking straight. He took a few deep breathes and tried to think of the black diamonds he would receive for this mission…right before he was turned into a...

"No," he whispered to himself, taking a few deep breaths and calling this distraction for what it was.

You are being manipulated, his thoughts cried, though you are wearing two wards against mind control…one given to you by someone who likely wants you dead. Regardless, Creshininbon had no problems getting through. He gave a deep sigh, pushing out the wave of negativity just in time to see the mist around him evaporate. This was enough to hold his full attention now.

Jarlaxle slowly looked up to the sandy shoreline and saw a figure ten feet away from him: a figure dressed all in a black robe, back turned to him as it looked down the other end of the shore. Jarlaxle pushed his back further against the cliff. He could run at the figure now and try to collar him…and likely die. Perhaps he could creep back to his companions. This latter idea appealed to him most. He backed away towards the other direction, though the black figure almost slid up the beach towards him. Jarlaxle knew he had been caught; it was just him and the newcomer now.

Jarlaxle smiled in spite of his situation, suddenly recalling his and Entreri's battle with the lich Hermincle, where he found himself and the lich face to face. It was a terrible moment that he turned to his advantage; stalling the lich long enough to discover the secret to destroying him and his tower and escaping with his life. It was indeed just like old times.

He allowed his muscles to relax a little despite the pounding of blood through his eardrums, bringing his legs forward and walking towards the robed being. The figure turned its head slightly in Jarlaxle's direction, enough to reveal the ruffled, white lace lining the edge of a hood, though keeping any face hidden in shadows. White ruffle over a black cape; this sounded too much like Moril. Jarlaxle clumsily placed the map in his vest pocket and walked out. Gromph never gave him any clue as to Moril's power; he knew he would have to proceed with extreme caution and be ready for absolutely everything.

"Good evening, your eminence," Jarlaxle said, removing his hat and bowing low. "Long have I awaited your presence, your wisdom."

"Sellsword," a soft, yet husky voice patiently replied through almost every part of his being. "I am amused that you openly greet me here. Though I cannot say I am surprised, Jarlaxle Baenre."

Jarlaxle felt slightly numb at this address. Very few in the realm knew his House name, though maybe a powerful Ur-Priest had access to any piece of information he wanted.

"At your service, my lord," he said, putting his hands together in a common gesture of prayer while giving a slight bow. "I humbly come before you, a simple dark elf who wishes to learn better the secrets of the universe that the terrible Spider Queen has long denied my people."

Moril let out a hoarse cackle that chilled Jarlaxle to the bone.

"Yes, the same people who have likely lined your pockets generously for my head, or my heart, or any other scrap that can be served on a steaming plate to the Spider Bitch," the Ur-Priest cackled, a wheezing laugh that spread from his form like a choking, poisoned smoke.

He slowly turned around as a hand wrapped in a gauntlet of black and white leather gradually slid back his hood. Jarlaxle expected to see the harlequin's face, but saw something completely different. The mercenary's stomach turned slightly as his eyes scanned the unnaturally gray and beige flesh that resembled putty loosely formed a piece at a time over his skull, their borders distinctively created in the form of many deep scars that seemed to run down the entire thickness of his skin. He was completely bald and had no ears, only puckered holes where ears may have once been. Moril's nose was but a small bud on his face with two holes. A thin membrane regularly folded over his pale yellow eyes that almost resembled eyelids while the skin around his eyes resembled gray, fleshy diamonds. His mouth looked to be longer than it should with the corners almost sewn up to look like a normal mouth, though a mouth with only thick stretches of flesh for lips; one side turned up in a smirk and the other down in a grimace.

Jarlaxle kept his expression completely straight, though seeing this visage on what was most likely a living humanoid was a tad disturbing.

"Behold the face of death, drow abomination," Moril said in an almost soothing tone.

Jarlaxle gave a small bow.

"Behold the face of your servant, your eminence," he replied, though he could see from the hideous smile on his face that he was far from convinced.

"Fear not, my son," Moril hissed, raising a hand covered in a leather gauntlet; one half black, the other white. "I promise you your death will come soon, just not now."

"As is the fate of all mortals," Jarlaxle replied, though the Ur-Priest's tone was more than a little unsettling as was his visage; the stretch of gray flesh wrinkling into an attempt at a smile.

The gauntleted hand rose slightly and twitched a thumb too soon for the mercenary to know what happened. It started as a slow burn from the pit of his stomach and erupted into the fountain of negativity that poured from every cell. Jarlaxle instinctively reached for a dagger, but it fell from his weak hand. His lungs seized with the cold enveloping his body as the burn in his stomach became a roaring fire. He felt like he was being consumed; muscles cramping in place and rendering him completely immobile, yet standing. Moril walked closer, his mangled mouth twitching in almost a smile as he held his hand up and continued to wiggle his fingers.

"You…bastard…" Jarlaxle managed to choke out, trying to fight the rising blackness.

He tried to will himself out of this, staring at Moril and trying to find some way to distract him. Moril came closer, raising his other hand, covered in a simple black glove, towards his face. He caressed his frigid cheek and let two fingers gently rub his trembling lips.

Jarlaxle managed a few gasps against the wave of agony, though it felt as if every part of him was being smothered in the ice and fire. His vision became a mass of white light, and then faded abruptly into complete blackness.

----------------

Drizzt formed the sand circle closer to the one, burning piece of driftwood, the only dry burning material any of them had been able to find. He had snapped it into a few twigs and formed a tiny fire; large enough to provide a trace amount of warmth against the growing cold, yet small enough to be inconspicuous. His eyes trailed up to the crevice in the rocks he and Entreri had found just a few feet away from their original location; it kept out the wind, yet the clouds looking overhead reminded both that their little shelter would not be secure for too long.

Entreri crouched closer to the tiny fire, rubbing his hands and looking through the crevice to the adjacent beach. This had gone on for twenty minutes; just long enough to make Jarlaxle's absence problematic.

"So who is going to volunteer to leave this lovely fire and find our companion?" Drizzt asked, his normally melodious voice a tad hoarse.

Entreri was about to answer when the rocks vibrated slightly with the sound of running bootsteps over their shelter. Drizzt piled sand over the fire on instinct.

_We have company_, he signed to the human while coming to his feet and leaping to his side.

Both mercenaries kept a wary eye on the sand outside. Someone was around, it was obvious. They took opposite sides of the crevice, both keeping backs to the rock and hands on weapons. Drizzt nodded at Entreri and carefully stepped out of their shelter, his eyes scanning the area as he saw his partner move from his location to a section outside the wall. They saw no one at first.

A series of dark figures then appeared across the beach, a group of humanoid shapes of varying sizes taking a casual stride towards them. Drizzt casually put hands on the hilts of his weapons, yet did not draw. A small, red glow appeared from what looked like the end of a short wand. Drizzt kept his defensive stance, but only saw the light grow into an orange glow from what looked like a type of metal torch projecting a wide, yellow beam wielded by a simply dressed human. The light spread around the tall, muscular man with a thick, brown beard wearing artisan's clothes of some kind. Accompanying him were two small boys with bright red hair and a heavyset woman with a long, red braid coming across her shoulder clad in a brown, leather apron. The light shone on Drizzt, his drow eyes slightly burning from the light, yet remaining focused as he casually squared against the group, who seemed to bear neither drawn weapons nor any desire to battle. He felt Entreri walking beside him, though he never turned his attention from the humans.

"What is he, mommy," a little brown-haired lad whispered to the woman, who put a hand on his shoulder while putting a finger to her dry lips indicating quiet while her watery blue eyes looking suspiciously, yet not threateningly at the drow.

"Well met," Entreri said, coming directly beside Drizzt and facing the humans. His arms folded around his stomach in a casual, yet ready gesture.

"Well met, indeed, good sirs," the man said cautiously, eying both of them, though his gaze lingering on Drizzt. "My son saw you gentlemen walking on our land. May I kindly inquire your business?"

Entreri's eyes narrowed slightly in surprise; this man had too eloquent a speaking voice for a simple villager, then again Sembia was a land of pompous pride.

"My companions and I are weary from travel," the assassin said in a careful, yet slightly defensive tone. "We wished to rest for a moment; though we had no idea these lands were anyone's property."

The bearded man walked closer. Drizzt suddenly felt a small sensation of warmth coming from the shortsword he had strapped to his back under his pack, almost as if the sword was greeting the human like a friend. The human stopped, his face showing confusion at first, then softening. He then smiled, reaching under his tunic and producing a small amulet; the holy symbol of Gond which was now taking a slight glow. The man walked closer, his eyes focused on Drizzt, though not in the same suspicious gaze he bore earlier. The woman walked forward, her weather beaten face bearing a frown at first, then her eyes widening as she too produced the same, glowing holy symbol from her tunic, just as another surge of warmth came from Drizzt's shortsword.

Entreri stood aside, glaring at Drizzt and furrowing his brows in vexed confusion.

"Brave sir," the man said with a relieved laugh. "I am Barson Brent, this is my wife Hanna. Both of us are clerics of the Lord of all Smiths, whose sacred temple in the city of Baldur's Gate was…"

"Destroyed by the enemy of the gods, Moril," Drizzt replied in a bored tone.

"A fouler name could not be spoken," Barson replied with a look of disgust. "Our lord delivered us a message yesterday in out morning prayers; six other gods were so besmirched and each was sending a champion to hunt down and destroy this villain. Gond is, admittedly, not a being of battle, but of simple action. He made a pact with all of six; any of his clerics are to provide healing and shelter to any one of the champions and their companions, who would be known to us by a sacred symbol."

Drizzt stood almost dumfounded for a second, staring at the almost beaming Barson, then looking at Hanna, whose gaze was still suspicious, though somewhat softened. Both boys tugged on their mother's apron, whispering excitedly. He then looked to Entreri, whose glare became more venomous by the second. Champions, his mind almost sputtered. He wanted to call the human a liar, but too much had occurred in the past few days to be coincidental.

Drizzt sighed, then reached on his back and drew the shortsword. Entreri would try to kill him for this later, but if his cover was blown, it should go dramatically. Barson nodded.

"Drizzt Do'Urden," the human said softly, "Champion of Vhaeraun."

They were words that chilled Drizzt's blood…and sent a small surge of pride.

"Gond told you our names," Drizzt said nodding in frustration.

"Though he made us swear not to reveal the names of the others," Hanna added in a tone of warning. "I don't know what your dark lord told you, but all told Gond there will be swift and terrible punishment if any of us come to harm. I don't know Vhaeraun, but I cannot imagine he is the kindly sort."

Drizzt gave a small bow. Given the energy he felt from his sword, it was a chance he did not care to take. He didn't trust any of these humans as far as he could throw their corpses, but Vhaeraun's eyes were everywhere. He reached back and re-sheathed the sword, eying all four humans and feeling the poisonous glare of the fifth locked on him.

"My companion and I require shelter, and immediately," Drizzt said. "Another dark elf travels with us and shall be here…"

He looked to the side for a brief second and saw the shadow of a broad, plumed hat coming from behind the rocks.

"And here the idiot comes now," Drizzt called over.

Barson shined the metal torch towards the figure, revealing Jarlaxle slowly creeping up to them in all his glory.

"Your scouting was in vain, _khal abbil_," he continued in a mocking tone. "We actually have shelter now as well as kind hospitality."

Drizzt gave a grinning sneer, though his smile rapidly melted as he took a better look at his companion. Jarlaxle walked in closer, though with almost a slight limp. The younger drow looked under the brim of the mercenary's hat and saw his normally brilliant ebony skin a shade of ashen gray. Entreri came passed behind and into Drizzt's vision beside their third companion, eying him with grim puzzlement. Jarlaxle's expression was blank, his arms hung loosely at his sides as he stumbled closer. A chill passed through the ranger; something was seriously amiss.

"Jarlaxle," Entreri called, walking carefully closer.

Jarlaxle's dull, red eyes scanned Drizzt, then Entreri, then the four other humans. He gave a weak smile. A thin stream of blood trailed from the side of his mouth as his eyes rolled back slightly and he fell backwards to the ground.

"Jarlaxle!" Drizzt cried, running over to the still form lying on the sand.

Entreri reached him first, kneeling over the drow and putting a hand to his neck; feeling a weak pulse and a strong feeling of dread sinking into his being

"He's alive," the assassin said in the calmest voice he could manage while gently shaking his companion. "Though barely."

Drizzt reached his friend's side and saw his full visage; eyes closed, face deathly pale, and the blood stream from his mouth steadier. He could feel the trampling of four sets of legs rushing towards them, though he barely registered any of it.

"What in the Nine Hells happened to you, _abbil_?" he whispered.

Jarlaxle made no response.


	10. One Lapse of Control

**The Lesser Evil: Hooligan's Holiday**

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of R.A. Salvatore/Wizards of the Coast ©. I don't own them; I'm just examining all their possibilities.

**Chapter 10: One Lapse of Control**

Calm down, Artemis

They were words that floated through the assassin's frenzied brain half a million times over the past ten minutes, his eyes never leaving the expanse of sea in front of him. The waves churned and a bolt of lightning floated through the thick clouds, followed soon after by the low moan of the wind descending over the peninsula. A second later, he flinched as the first, cold pricks of water flung against his hot face and built up to a complete onslaught. Within the next few seconds, water streamed down his goatee and flowed down his back. He noticed very little of it.

Entreri gave a low growl that turned into a scream as he kicked at a small pile of rocks on the cliff before bending down and grabbing another handful of pebbles to fling at the sea. He then found a piece of loose planking, likely a shingle from the lighthouse or maybe a scrap from one of the clerics' last creations. Without a thought, he leapt to the nearest boulder and slammed it against the stone; a series of maddened growls escaping his throat as he pounded the wood so hard it splintered with a loud crack and ricocheted against his shoulder.

The assassin kicked the rock again and looked at his white tunic, seeing a long trail of blood. The splintered wood may have left a small bruise, but the blood wasn't his; it splashed on him after Jarlaxle's last seizure. Ten minutes ago when they first came to this lighthouse-turned-cozy family home, a trail of bloody spittle flew from his mouth and splashed across the human's tunic. It was a sight that only made his steadily growing rage even more vicious, though he paused, reached back, and squeezed the building moisture from his ponytail while trying to let the cool rain calm him down a little.

Artemis looked back down the brick path. The rain had washed away most of the freshly spewed dark elf blood, though a few bright red drops remained on the gray shale beside the path and a little still being washed away in the yellow grass that grew along the hill. It was a golden, dead carpet that spread out over the small swatch of peninsula occupied by various shacks topped with tiny chimneys and lined with various saw horses, rickety canoes barely fit for use, and various fishing nets and poles that looked more suited to a boat at one point in history. Various lamps shone in the windows as a few villagers here and there shut doors and brought in goats and dogs.

Lucas and Riley Barson were down there somewhere. Their mother had sent them to a neighbor's after Jarlaxle's collapse, and the little ones dutifully obliged. Someone so young should not see a wicked drow elf spitting up blood as his parents laid hands on him saying prayers as the two other strange men lifted him up and carried him to the lighthouse, especially those few times he had to be set on the ground as his fits became more violent.

Entreri gave out another growl, trying to hold back the onslaught of images; the prone form of his companion, always so strong and confident, in the throes of violent shivering. It reminded him too much that Jarlaxle, under all the colorful garments and mounds of magic items, was still an elf; a frail creature composed of flesh easily chilled and blood easily spilled.

"Calm down, Artemis," he sighed to himself through gritted teeth, whipping around and walking up the loose, brick path.

With another deep breath, he pushed open the flimsy wooden door and cautiously walked into the simple lighthouse. A gust of wind caused the structure to creak very slightly, though the old stone and wood was more than enough to keep it upright, especially considering its caretakers were clerics of the Lord of all Smiths; the king of mechanical ingenuity.

The ground floor looked to be mostly a workshop; various scraps of metal and wood were strewn about a series of workbenches along the round wall and scattered around the floor. All contained various shapes and frames that looked to be projects in the making; some rather involved series of gears and pulleys, while some were but a few pieces that looked to do something. Tools were scattered everywhere, as well as various parchments and pens. The assassin's black eyes scanned around, yet stayed on the floor, where a few more drops of Jarlaxle's blood had scattered, the various, magically glowing lanterns on the various workbenches illuminating the red like little beacons on the gray stone.

Entreri turned his gaze to the back, brick wall, cautiously walking through, yet keeping on his guard; it was the only reliable state he knew now. His peripheral vision caught the sight or a rare, cast iron stove on the other wall as he smelled the aroma of stale coffee and old, salted mutton. He stopped for a second to look at the steaming stove and the small table beside it; four plates arranged around the simple, square wood still loaded with gristle and juices from the family's meal. The pan containing the meat still sat on the stove, an inviting sight to the once hungry human whose appetite was waning by the second.

At last the floor came to a stair, then another ascending. His heavy eyes looked up the long spiral staircase that was dark save for the small lantern at the top of the stairwell in a small hallway. He wanted to ascend, though an invisible force known only to him kept him back. Jarlaxle was up there; dying, vomiting blood, or maybe sitting up with his usual grin, exchanging tales with the clerics.

He took a few steps back and leaned against the wall, trying to calm his nerves lest they send him into a maddening rage more typical of Drizzt's nonsense than his own cold discipline…which he felt melting away with the rain. It was not the time to weep, however; it was time to find out what in the Nine Hells happened. Anything could have befallen Jarlaxle while he was wandering those rocks; magical trap, latent undetectable poison put in his drink in Scardale Town, a meeting with Kimmuriel or any other Bregan D'aerthe member ending in treachery, running into an old enemy, running into the Banites, running into Moril. Knowing Jarlaxle, he could have been ambushed by Lolth herself, tossed around her spidery legs like a ball, and left with a pat on the head. His clothing bore no blood or marks of any injury, and Entreri wasn't able to examine under his clothing since the emphasis was on taking him into shelter and raising his icy temperature.

Entreri let out a long sigh, feeling himself almost melt into the wall and allow his blood pressure to drop a little. After a few seconds, he turned around and faced the hallway once again. The assassin let his own vision shift to see within the darkness and saw Drizzt Do'Urden sitting on a stair, his back against the round, stone wall. A mane of white hair came hung from his hanging head, covering his face yet fully revealing his blank, grim expression as his eyes stayed fixed on a spot on the wall in front of him. Clutched gently in his slender hands was a grand, plumed hat; the same one he rescued from the beach when its owner fell.

Entreri clenched his fists and glared at the drow, then looked down at Jarlaxle's hat, then to the drow again, wanting nothing more than to cut his entrails out right there. He slowly unclenched his fists and let out a profound sigh.

You lose your temper; you will lose your control, he thought to himself over and over again.

Just like Jarlaxle did, he ultimately thought. Look how he ended up.

Jarlaxle wasn't so crafty now; one had to be conscious to be crafty. One could not be crafty and scheming while one was barely alive.

The images only assaulted the assassin's mind more; Jarlaxle, the master schemer, the one who was always in control and always came out on top, lying prone in the arms of his companions who carried him across the beach; Drizzt took his legs, Entreri grabbed his shoulders and had the best view of his ashen gray face.

Seven years; for seven years Artemis Entreri and Jarlaxle were partners…friends. The drow had used the human as a puppet for his schemes and a fleshy shield time and time again, yet the thought of him in any amount of suffering sent a wave of anger over Entreri. Jarlaxle wasn't supposed to choke on his own blood; he thought.

He looked up at Drizzt, whose expression had not changed. Drizzt, his only remaining friend: Drizzt the favored of his deity who was apparently commanded to do said deity's work…at the expense of his companions. Drizzt the scheming drow who had used his associates to gain glory in the eyes of his god…a plot that likely included the death of the second drow…

No, that is not it, Entreri thought as he watched Drizzt's vacant gaze float down to the hat in his hands, and then back to the wall. He knew Drizzt had nothing to do with whatever happened to Jarlaxle out on that beach; he wouldn't have screamed his name when he fell and trembled at the sight of his prone form. He wouldn't be sitting here now mournfully gazing at the wet hat of his victim.

It was the only thought in the assassin's mind that kept the ranger alive.

"Is he alive?" Entreri said, his voice echoing through the stones.

The drow stayed still, though a small twitch in his face indicated momentary surprise. Drizzt looked at the ceiling, and then nodded.

"Any change?" the assassin asked, looking at Do'Urden and feeling like he was talking to a scared little boy.

"I have been told nothing," Drizzt replied, his voice slightly cracking.

Entreri's nerve only became strained a bit more. The drow clenched the hat harder hands and looked at the floor. This was clearly not the posture of a killer who had failed his job, but a man close to losing his old friend. Drizzt looked how Entreri felt…and he hated him even more for it.

"I hope you're praying to your god now, Do'Urden," the human hissed, walking closer to the sitting ranger, who had rested his head against the wall as his eyes absently trailed back to the high ceiling; yet the curl of his lip and the way he clenched his fists showed he was preparing for battle. "I hope you are trying to gain some insight as to why our companion started bleeding to death."

Drizzt said nothing, but Entreri could see the fire lighting in his eyes. This one had a horrific temper and could likely rip him in half with one thought, though he didn't care. He could only see Jarlaxle's unconscious form as he choked up another river of blood; this to the tune of the clerics hailing Drizzt the…

"Champion of Vhaeraun," Entreri added carefully with a small chuckle, though his voice was taking on a rising scream as his nerve slipped even more. "Champion of Vhaeraun, you double-crossing son of a bitch!"

Drizzt's icy lavender eyes locked on him, displaying an unnerving calm; the same expression given by a lion before it tears the nearest fleshy thing apart. Entreri had no place to go in his rage but forward.

Drizzt wanted to say something, anything, but his throat was so tight no words came out; a lump that only thickened with his companion's words. The remaining itch and fatigue of his cold still lingered slightly even though the initial illness was cured by a small potion Barson tossed him as he entered the lighthouse, between prayers over Jarlaxle's unconscious form.

It was all too much. Vhaeraun hailed him, no betrayed him; wait, no, gave him a puzzle…that he could not solve before his name, the name of a goodly hero who was supposed to be dead, was proclaimed from the mouths of strangers as some great hero…that he never wanted to be again. In the din of his thoughts he could still hear Jarlaxle; the normally silver and melodious voice of his kinsman, his mentor, his close friend, giving out a few choking groans as his mortal-enemy-turned-close-friend accused him of…just like the councilors of Icewind Dale accused him of…

He wrapped his arms around his knees, almost feeling like he was ten-years-old and balling up into a corner after hearing Briza scream about the spot of fungus he accidentally left on the rug and expecting to feel the sting of the snake whip any time. Only this time he knew he could cut apart those who threatened him, though he wasn't actually being threatened. He was sitting in a stairwell feeling like he was about to tumble down from his cozy spot of sanity into vicious, blood-spattering madness; a state he feared worse than any monster, deity, power, or fate he could ever face.

"Don't start with me now, Artemis," he said in the strongest voice he could muster, yet to his companion they sounded like a cross between a weak hiss and a sob.

The assassin's common sense grabbed him by the collar, hoisted him off his feet, and screamed in his face to turn around and find another rock to hit. That logical mind, however, seemed locked outside in the rain while his current mindset outlined his sitting partner in red flames. He looked almost vulnerable in this position…almost.

"I wasn't the one who started this!" Entreri screamed, noticing how Drizzt flinched at his tone of voice; a reaction that only rubbed at his raw nerve fiercer. "I wasn't the one whose name has been shouted out as a gods damned hero!"

"You are just gods damned," Drizzt whispered...words he regretted the first second they came out of his mouth.

The only warning he had was a few light steps across the floor. In a second a hand was lifting him from the floor. Another slammed into his jaw and sent his head bouncing against the wall, the force causing his hand to open and the hat to float lightly to the stair. Everything happened so fast he had no way of reacting, though the burning ache in his mouth and the rush of salty fluid from his mouth gave him more than a little pause. He looked up to see the human leaning over him, his black gaze boring through his soul as his tongue dislodged the back tooth that had been rattled free. A tense calm came over him as the assassin's venomous gaze spoke volumes: he was trying to control himself now, though just one wrong move.

Drizzt stood up and spat out the bloody tooth which bounced down the staircase with a series of soft taps.

"You know," Drizzt said, his speech slightly muffled from the blood, "you should learn to hide your emotions better."

What little control Entreri had at that moment disappeared. Before he registered what he was doing, Drizzt's collar was in his hand and he was slamming the elf's slender form against the wall. He threw him down the stairwell, though was not surprised when he broke into a roll and came to his feet at the bottom in a perfect landing. Entreri slid down the thin railing and aimed his feet for the drow's chest. Drizzt came to a perfect crouch and Entreri flew over him, though in perfect time to lower his legs and land on the dark elf's shoulders, sending him to the floor.

It was a move that caught Drizzt slightly off guard for long enough to allow the frenzied human to crouch over him, grab him by the throat and repeatedly slam his head against the floor. He lost sense of himself and his surroundings; only paying attention the wretched drow in his grasp and savoring the ooze of blood from the back of his head…as he lay perfectly prone and completely conscious. The alarm sounded in Entreri's mind long enough to see Drizzt grin, then start laughing; a small chuckle at first then a chilling cackle. The crazy bastard was enjoying this.

Entreri paused for a second; the surge of adrenaline through his body making his senses too numb to register the pair of feet slamming into his chest. His back landed on the floor, before he was picked up by the neck and hoisted up. A fist slammed across his jaw, a pointed toe connected with his groin, and an elbow slammed into his ribs. He felt the blood flowing down his lip, though the shock of the sudden, fierce blows sent his senses reeling. Entreri had one second to enjoy full consciousness, enough to feel himself flying through the air. An explosion of pain assaulted his lower back as he heard a loud snap and landed on the stone floor in a fetal position.

Wake up, you ass, his mind screamed through the pain.

Entreri let out a groan, getting control of his senses…only to register the press of a blade underneath his Adam's apple as a slender hand guided him to a sit. The hot smell of old bourbon and cloves was heavy on his face as he felt slender fingers dig through his hair and pull at the roots. His eyes opened fully to see Do'Urden's fine elven nose pressed into his face, the drow's expression one of calm, yet burning rage.

"You dumb bastard," the assassin hissed, though his words were entirely to himself.

"Yes, yes," Drizzt sneered in his ear, "now you know what it feels like; that hot rush threatening to consume your soul, the feeling that you have nothing else in the whole fucking universe to turn to besides your own rage. Doesn't it feel good, doesn't it feel like what you have been denying yourself, doesn't it feel like you could die right now and have some relief?"

"What makes you think death provides relief?" Entreri sneered before he even realized the words coming out of his mouth.

He let out a laugh that Drizzt almost heard as a mix between a wince and a sob.

Entreri looked directly into his icy lavender eyes, his own adrenaline surging less as he forced his logical, ordered thought into the open, pushing out all the terrors his mind could invoke at a moment's notice. It was enough to register how Do'Urden's hand trembled slightly as his eyes watered a little stronger. Entreri knew he was looking into the face of madness; a visage that made him ill, went against every fiber of his being, and stood as a warning of what he could become if he failed to maintain his icy control.

Drizzt held his sneer, final vindication for an individual with a holier-than-thou attitude so strong it was slowly destroying him. Just like his own destroyed him once-upon-a-time. Slowly, the adrenaline flowed less and all his held-back emotions started to wriggle their way out. His self-assured look started to melt. He held the simple dagger firm, yet the look in his eyes spoke that he could not drive the blade home…though with Drizzt Do'Urden, nothing was ever predictable. Entreri met his gaze, though his glare softened; he had already put himself into this position through his own stupidity, all he had to do was trust in his partner's loyalty…an abysmally poor position indeed.

"Oh, do you think I would kill you?" Drizzt said in a tone of mock surprise, though his true thoughts were instantly betrayed by the shrill crack in his voice. "No, not at all. I personally would not want to travel alone with that peacock in a drow suit and I'm sure he would not be very happy with me. The only question is, will you try, and I mean try, to kill me once I lower this blade?"

Entreri wanted to make some retort, but words were an alien concept to him right now. His own anger defeated him…and Do'Urden reminded him of that in the most blatant way. He didn't know if he wanted to shake his hand or stab him through the heart. The tiny tears streaming from his lavender eyes only thickened the barrier between the human and any words.

Drizzt gave a small smile, savoring the almost defeated expression of the humbled bastard under his grasp; a bastard who had so much more room to kick out and reverse positions, yet remained casually still right now. The assassin's glare almost seemed softened, a rather disturbing sight indeed. It took a small squeak from the wooden stairs to turn the attentions of both.

Both sets of eyes looked up to see the hulking form of Hanna Barston walking down the stairs with a purpose. She glared at them, but made no moves and tempered her gaze. It was obvious to both that she was completely scared of both of them, hence why she ignored the fact the battered drow was holding a flimsy dagger to the human's throat. Drizzt turned his look to Entreri, lowering the dagger and throwing his head back before untangling his fingers from his wet, black hair.

Entreri managed to come to a full sit, and then slowly moved his legs until he came to a painful stand. He rubbed his back; it was sore and likely badly bruised, though no bones were broken. He then looked back and gave a small, involuntary gasp. Behind him was a flimsy, knotted support post made from a mid sized log of some type of wood. That support post had been snapped clean in half; as his back should have been, though the drow's throw was perfect, using the momentum of the assassin's body weight perfectly to snap the post yet cause very little damage to the man at all.

His eyes trailed forward, looking at the woman, whose gaze seemed more cautious, though threatening rage at every turn.

"You're going to help me fix that post, I assume," she said descending the stairs and dividing her gaze between both men.

"That depends on if you came down here to deliver us news or scold us for our horse play," Entreri replied, stalking forward. "Just bear in mind we are far from your boys."

The woman glared at both once more. Drizzt took a deep breath, replacing the simple dagger in his belt and rapidly growing impatient from the lack of news. Hanna looked at the drow, yet was careful not to look him in the eye.

"Your servant is stable," she said. "The blood stopped and his temperature has come up."

Both mercenaries maintained their respective icy composures, yet both let out small sighs; a sense of immense relief was visible in the faces and body postures of both.

"Do you have any idea what caused the condition of …my companion?" Drizzt asked with a profound, almost mocking nod.

Hanna shifted uncomfortably.

"He had a stomach ulcer that was bleeding badly," she replied. "I know little about any elves, black or otherwise, but he's not a young one. Not an uncommon illness, I can imagine. That mixed with being out in that cold air too long gave him a chill that almost killed him. He's been coming in and out, though he'll live. A potion took care of the ulcer and the fire's doing its work now. He did lose quite a bit of blood, though some potions for that should undo most of the damage. Barson insists you stay here until he starts walking around…and he says help yourselves to the coffee and mutton on the stove."

She turned around and walked back to the stair. Drizzt and Entreri glanced at each other; the human noting his companion's bloody mouth and how his long, white hair took on a reddish tinge from the caked blood from the back of his scalp. Drizzt saw his companion's cut, bleeding lip and how he stretched his sore back out. Both had obviously done a number on each other, a sight that invoked a microscopic smile from Drizzt and a defeated glare from Entreri; their respective rage held somewhat in check.

"Bleeding ulcer?" Entreri whispered with an unconvinced look.

"He's not a young elf," Drizzt said, his eyes trailing to the ceiling. "It is possible he's not as healthy as we assume."

Entreri gave a stiff nod, though the cleric's explanation seemed far from sufficient.

The squeak on the stair announced Hanna Barston's return appearance. Both mercenaries turned their attentions forward to see the rough woman coming into view.

"Oh almost forgot," she said, reaching into her leather apron, "this fell out of your…companion's vest when we put it on the chair. You might want to hold on to it for him."

A pudgy hand produced a thin, leather bound book and tossed it on the nearest bench. She then nodded and walked away. Entreri and Drizzt let their eyes fall on the journal, both curious, yet cautious.

"Well the most god blessed one of us should see what it is," Entreri said with a smirk.

Drizzt flashed him an icy glare and walked over to the table, eying the simple, brown leather book for a second. Blocking out all caution, he snatched it up and examined the cover; a simple, embossed border clasped by a plain, brass button with a leather cord wound around, the other end connected to the back cover of the book. The cord was loosely wrapped, a sight that made Drizzt assume that whatever was inside was either of little importance to their unconscious companion or was hastily concealed. He looked to the side and saw Entreri scrutinizing the book as carefully as him, a small look of both curiosity and profound wariness.

The drow shrugged his shoulders and grabbed the wound end of the cord, unwinding it fully and throwing the loose end to dangle from the side. Entreri groaned and rushed forward.

"I thought you actually learned something," he said in a harsh whisper.

He then put a hand on the book, feeling the cover and spine for any potential traps Jarlaxle or anyone else may have set, finding none. He snatched the book in his own hand with no protest from Drizzt and placed it back on the table. The skilled rogue then drew Charon's Claw and walked back a few paces, motioning for his companion to do the same. Drizzt complied, seeing the logic in the caution.

The tip of the sword met the inside cover of the book, the fine blade's wielder gently pried the cover open until it fell to the table. No traps, no magical enchantments, nothing, but a folded sheet of parchment bearing many lines and images. Charon's Claw nudged the paper before Entreri came forward and gently picked it up. Drizzt looked over his shoulder as he carefully unfolded the parchment to reveal it was a wide and very detailed map of what was clearly the center of Faerûn; the area they traveled now. The landscape was composed of various topographical reliefs and detailed depictions of forests and plains. All script was in the characters of Espruar, the elven script, though the language was High Drow.

Entreri only understood the most basic written form of the language, but Drizzt cocked an eyebrow as he examined the script. He had seen many samples of Jarlaxle's handwriting in Espruar; enough to know the cramped script was far from his usual flowing style. Entreri never took his eyes off the parchment, finding their present location and tracing over the path with his pinkie. At last he came to the peninsula they were now, noting the light press against the parchment in a particular spot, noting the slight, half-moon shape of a small fingernail…an elven one most likely. Drizzt's attention came back to the parchment and noted his partner's careful, yet unamused expression as he kept his finger over one spot; the spot where the impression was clearer in the right angle of light. He made a mental note of the impression; this would require further investigation. He looked at Drizzt, who barely seemed to notice this little detail at all…or was hiding his surprise well.

"Jarlaxle's little cheat sheet?" Drizzt whispered, keeping completely calm at all the implications of this discovery, "though somehow I doubt it. Does this look like his usual script?"

Entreri leaned in further and examined the writing, though his immediate reaction was a shake of the head. He could barely understand the words, though he knew its style wasn't the usual show and gloss of Jarlaxle's dramatic hand. Entreri examined the script carefully, recalling any samples of Kimmuriel Oblodra's handwriting he has seen on notes and addresses over the time he worked as Bregan D'aerthe's human front in Calimport with the drow psion. After a moment of careful thought, the realization was clear.

"This is also a little too neat organized for the Jarlaxle's resident psionic," the human said.

"A third party most likely," Drizzt replied. "Though just think about it; if Jarlaxle is concealing this map, why all the dramatics with the enchanted disk he allegedly found at the temple? Better yet, this is a little too flouncy and detailed to be a hasty copy, even by drow standards."

Entreri nodded silently, the corner of his thumb gently feeling the quality of the parchment and lightly rubbing over the ink. He was not well versed in the art of appraisal, though he knew enough about the quality of forgeries versus better quality notes to tell some of the difference.

"Too extravagant to be a copy," he said, feeling his temples throb as more thing became clear. "The ink is thick; you could almost feel the lines and read this map in pitch blackness. I can imagine Jarlaxle or any of his cronies would not pay that much for ink of this quality. The parchment is also a little thicker than Bregan D'aerthe typically uses."

Drizzt's eyes widened at a sudden realization.

"Fine parchment made from rare materials and ink likely containing lizard oil," Drizzt said feeling the map and recalling various letters and scripts he encountered as a child. "The High Houses will usually flaunt their wealth in any way they can, even in writing material. That son of a bitch."

Entreri nodded, understanding his companion's meaning; in Menzoberranzan he had seen many letters from many nobles made from such materials.

"The map was constructed by a drow noble," Entreri said, everything becoming a little clearer. "Either Jarlaxle made a friend who was willing to scribe this for him, or we have found our employer."

Drizzt kicked the table leg hard and let out a growl. A spew of obscenities in Common and Drow fell from his lips as his fists pounded the bench.

"Get your temper down," Entreri said, flashing him a dirty glare, though his own blood was pumping a bit hotter. "This proves nothing."

"Horse shit," Drizzt spat, "this proves enough. You're fucking blind, I'm fucking blind! We've both been lead around by the throat since we started this little excursion when it was in plain sight. The bastard goes off for a day and suddenly comes to us with this perfect map leading us straight to Moril. Did you even ask who is going to provide the bounty? Did you even question it when he found this little artifact so nicely tucked in the rubble? Gods dammit!"

Entreri casually leaned on the bench, though every one of Do'Urden's words were like a rake against his peeled flesh. He had never challenged Jarlaxle at all, never even questioned his motivations for this trip. Usually he was standing perpetually in the ready and always scrutinizing his partner's actions. This time however…one lapse of control…one moment of waking from death.

Drizzt pounded the table with another grunt, then looked up at the assassin. His jaw was tight and he tapped his fingers against the bench as if every tap was supposed to break the wood. His other hand hung loose at his side, though it shivered slightly. His black gaze met Drizzt, who turned away and laughed.

"I just want to pause and savor this moment where the great Artemis Entreri started visibly trembling," the drow said. "If you aren't careful, you might just look human."

Entreri's eyes shot open as he reined in the sudden urge to put out another one of the drow's teeth. That was until he raised his hand slightly and indeed saw it take on a small shake. He took a deep breath and threw his hand back down.

"No, I never challenged Jarlaxle's grand scheme," Entreri sneered. "Is that what you want me to say? Why should I, after all, I am the stupid _rivvil_ lead around by two cunning drow with their own agendas."

Drizzt's eyes narrowed dangerously.

"Behold my fragile form in a sticky web facing two black spiders," the assassin continued in a tone of melodrama mixed with stinging sarcasm. "One is the ever cunning, ever-scheming Jarlaxle; the master of playing those around him like pieces in his own little game. The second is the bitter and ever ambitious Drizzt Do'Urden; the great warrior who fell from goodness and has no other worth besides making himself a great champion in the eyes of his dark god. Now he is going on a grand quest, choosing his expendable squires wisely. Or maybe there is a bit more to this drama." Entreri knew proceeding further would be infinitely dangerous, especially given the murderous look plastered on his companion's ebony face. He had already gone far enough and there was no where to go but forward. "Oh, I understand, the tool of Lolth and the tool of Vhaeraun are both traveling in the same pack. The only question is; which one will get use of the human today?"

Drizzt put a hand on the table, digging his nails in the wood, and getting ready to grab a scimitar and slice his head off; finally wiping off that smug smile. Instead he kept his control, channeling his inner rage into actually listening to what he was saying. A creeping grin came over the drow's face as he gave a low, menacing chuckle. Jarlaxle's deception was exposed. Matters would only turn truly ugly if Drizzt kept his own mouth shut, though Entreri had actually been witness to everything.

"So that's what you think," Drizzt said softly. "All is completely understandable. I don't blame you for your suspicion, though I assure matters are a little less ominous."

Entreri's glare became more venomous. Drizzt merely laughed again and walked over to the twitchy human and stopped when his face was a few inches away from his. Entreri did not flinch and even softened his gaze slightly, though honing his muscles and remembering the location of every weapon on his person.

"For one thing, Lolth has no part in this," Drizzt continued, savoring the increasing tightness in the dangerous human's jaw. He then raised his hand and started counting on his fingers. "Tymora, Torm, Selune; the three attacked first, as we know from the notices, though no one posted for the church of Shar in Yartar, though Mazn'reysla was kind enough to tell me about it. We do know about the attack on Bane's temple at Castle Wenthias thanks to both aforementioned cleric and those new friends we met in Scardale Town. Now, I admit I am not entirely sure what my Masked God wants with Clown Cultist, though he likely has a good reason." He spread the fingers on one hand and raised a single finger on the other. "Now not counting the poor Wonderbringer, whose revenge is coming vicariously through more martial parties, I do believe that makes six deities."

He paused and looked at the glare of his companion with a smile.

"Now is when things get really interesting," Drizzt continued, "though I'm sure that you know the rest."

"And why is that?" Entreri hissed.

"Because you were in the room when I was first sent on my divine quest."

Entreri narrowed his eyes, feeling a small burn in the pit of his stomach. The idea was incredible to him; he never took part in any rituals and had no interest in doing so.

"You don't remember do you?" Drizzt said, his smile widening. "Once again, understandable, considering how drunk you were that night."

Entreri felt sick. He let his guard down once…

"He said he actually liked you," Drizzt continued, noting Entreri's glare burning a hole through his flesh.

Drizzt's hand came up towards his hairline and quickly grabbed a thin lock of loose black hair, pulling it out before Entreri had any idea what was happening. The human flinched, letting out a shrill gasp.

The creeping chill came over him, the whole room, the whole universe entire, pulsing around one presence; the drow with the glowing, green hair. His haunting green eyes contained the stuff of pure shadows, two green beams peering from behind a blood red mask. A slender form leaned over him clutching the lock of his hair in fine fingers that could twist his head off with barely any effort.

His eyes closed for a second. The wave passed and they opened again, regarding another familiar drow; smile still plastered on his face, yet his enthusiasm looked dimmed.

"Any recollections?" Drizzt asked, though still slightly in awe.

Artemis Entreri had met Vhaeraun. The effects of such an encounter still lingered in his soul; the soul of one who knew the nether planes a little too intimately. How could one's mind survive such an experience? Through iron self-discipline forged over the course of forty-seven years, he thought. Though how long could such a dam hold?

Drizzt backed away, nodding slightly. Entreri let out a deep sigh. His lost his control again, though this time it actually felt good; a weight lifted from his shoulders.

"You have your answer, Do'Urden," the human said in a tired sneer. "What will you do with it now?"

"I believe the question is," the drow replied soberly, "what will you do with it?"

Artemis Entreri had no answer, only a heavy gaze.


	11. The Voice of Moril

**The Lesser Evil: Hooligan's Holiday**

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of R.A. Salvatore/Wizards of the Coast ©. I don't own them; I'm just examining all their possibilities.

**Chapter 11: The Voice of Moril**

"His temperature has risen slightly and he is more coherent," Barson said, looking down at the human and the drow sitting at the small, kitchen table. "We talked a little, though it seemed he struggled over basic information; he had a difficult time remembering his name and your names as well, which is understandable considering his hypothermia and blood loss."

Drizzt sat casually, yet at the ready, sipping his steaming, gray mug of stale coffee and giving a glance to his companion. Entreri ripped a small strip of meat off the chunk in his plate with his fingers and gradually put it in his mouth while considering the cleric's words. Before tonight they would have considered these descriptions part of Jarlaxle's usual drama, though tonight was completely different.

The waning storm outside was giving off a few last gasps against the old building, though the wind and pounding rain had lost most of their original strength. Regardless, the atmosphere in that room was still chillingly cold. Barson felt nothing but casual demeanors from these two dangerous creatures, though the air between them was tense. Drizzt and Entreri shared a glance that communicated much between them. Entreri turned his attention back to his meal, then casually looked at Hanna at the back of the room, who was tinkering with one of her latest creations that only looked like a square frame at the moment. Her green eyes stayed on her work, though the way the muscles tensed in her face gave away her discomfort at the look, though not fear.

"Is he well enough to take visitors?" Drizzt asked, his icy lavender eyes sending a small chill through the large human's form.

"I don't see why not," the cleric said with a shrug, "though he is still easily worn. I would not recommend staying for too long."

This will take as long as it needs to, Entreri thought, idly tearing off another hunk of meat, though he merely nodded in response. He picked up a dish towel from the table and wiped the residual grease from his fingers. Drizzt casually put down his mug and gave his partner another look before rising, followed by the human across from him.

Barson narrowed his eyes in confusion, his gut instinct telling him these two had something planned. He was right of course. While he was examining the ill dark elf, who was just beginning to say a few words through an obvious mental haze, his other two guests ate…and discussed their situation.

Their companion was dying…and was carrying a map of the area that was written in High Drow and made from rare and pricy materials; the same materials commonly used by drow nobles in correspondence. The most likely conclusion was Jarlaxle had been employed by a drow noble of sorts, likely Menzoberranzyr, to take his two lackeys and find Moril for what was probably a high reward. That thought was unsettling in itself, though the possible identity of their exact employer was even more disturbing. Both could only hope that it was a merchant of low import, though they would have preferred lichdrow Dyrr or Gromph Baenre over any Matron, considering the high price on their heads in Menzoberranzan, even twenty years after the House Baenre chapel imploded, in addition to their own respective personal preferences. In such a scenario, Jarlaxle could have been offered extra coin to turn them over to satisfy the whims of some Matron or lower priestess. While it was improbable that he would, the fugitives could still be found if the mercenary captain's contacts were in the right meeting point at the right time.

Entreri and Drizzt discussed possibility after possibility, and every remedy for all. It was a peace summit of sorts between two individuals making some mutual agreements. Entreri knew that Drizzt had divine interests in capturing Moril, though for the moment he was willing to put a few doubts aside. The drow had been honest with him, an obvious fact based on both his manner and what the assassin himself had experienced. Entreri knew that whatever interests his partner had, they were likely less malicious than whatever Jarlaxle had gotten them involved in. He found he could deal better with the shifty machinations of Vhaeraun's flock than the insatiable bloodlust of any of Lolth's servants. It was a matter of recognizing the lesser evil; the forces he could tolerate and those that only meant a painful death.

They considered other options, but in order to maintain the safety of everyone in the party (at least those not in the knowing employ of a drow House), Jarlaxle had to be confronted. Neither Drizzt nor Entreri were fond of these games, though the game had just become a little more complicated.

Confronting Jarlaxle with any of his complex schemes, however, was like slowly creeping up to a monstrous spider before it fed; one never knew when it would stand still, creep, or jump on the individual doing the sneaking and devour him whole. Jarlaxle, however, was mostly incapacitated and could barely remember his own name let alone what scheme he was working on at the moment; unless this was a ruse as well. There was only one way to find out.

Drizzt followed Barson to the stairwell, though Entreri hung back slightly and looked at Hanna. She had been in and out of the room during the entire conversation. While the mercenaries spoke their schemes in Low Drow under harsh whispers and sometimes hand code, Entreri still considered her a witness. Near the end of the meeting, the assassin changed his speech to Common and raised his tone.

"We know he's lying to us," the assassin said within perfect earshot of the female cleric. "There is too much at stake to let this go on any further. The only way we can proceed is by trusting the confidence of Hanna as well as her clerical powers."

Hanna knew she had been volunteered in their plot, though she did not care. Hers was a simple role. She finished attaching the fourth end of the frame before gently putting it down and walking from behind her bench towards the assassin.

Entreri nodded, looking down at her apron. Her plump hand reached into the wide pocket on the front and produced a small, glass vial of blue liquid. The assassin reached over and grabbed the vial, looking through the glass and analyzing its contents. He lifted the cork up for a second, gently sniffing the sweet liquid and nodding, replacing the stopper and handing it back to the woman with a nod and a pointed glare; his eyes would be on her constantly.

Barson continued up the stair, soon hearing the creaking wood reflect the light steps of the drow and soon the heavier steps of the drow's human companion. He kept on his guard, yet did not panic at having two admitted killers behind his back; these men had no need to kill him and Gond swore their god would severely punish them if they exacted any harm. The troupe reached the top of the stairs and walked down a short corridor to a simple wooden door with a bell mounted outside. The two assassins noticed the complete lack of any decoration in the corridor, though these were simple people.

Barson turned the handle and opened the door slowly, revealing the ill drow on his shaking legs by the clothesline that held his wet effects. Jarlaxle's small form was encased in a long, thick sweater that was brown in color and adorned with various designs of green deer and red beavers. The pullover covered the length of his form, yet left his ebony legs bare. They still bore their usual tight muscle tone, yet shivered like the wobbling legs of a newborn deer. He was hunched over, yet tried to pull up his posture many times as he collected his muted strength in short bursts. All could here his heavy, staggered breathing and the sickening gurgle in his throat as he tried to hold back a lingering gag. Drizzt and Entreri could see him turn his head slightly, noting his ash gray complexion and sunken eyes. He still wore all of the jeweled chains and gold earrings he collapsed in; a look that stood out against his simple, urbane bedclothes.

Jarlaxle's shaking hands were slowly going through the pockets of his vest, a look of vexation and puzzlement over his features as he silently mouthed what looked like various drow curses. Drizzt and Entreri traded a heavy glance; he noticed the map was missing.

"Master Jarlaxle," Barson said rushing forward, "Don't you push yourself like that. You need your rest."

Jarlaxle jumped slightly in surprised, casually looking back to the cleric with a weak, yet nasty glare. Gradually his red eyes trailed back to see both his companions staring at him with glares of sad disgust.

"Let me give you a hand there, sir," Barson said, bracing Jarlaxle's shoulders and gently supporting his weight.

The drow nodded, using his legs as supports as he was practically carried back to the bed and set down. He slowly swung his legs back on the mattress as Barson pulled the brown and red wool blanket over him.

"Your companions couldn't wait to see you," the cleric said, motioning to the two sour looking individuals next to him.

Jarlaxle looked up at them and smiled.

"Well you see I live another day," Jarlaxle said, his voice barely above a whisper as a hand lazily gave one of his usual grand gestures.

Jarlaxle was alive and obviously recovering…slowly. Deep down it was a welcome sight for both no matter how angry they were. For a second it almost made both regret their upcoming plans…but the second passed quickly. Entreri stayed in the doorway casually eying Hanna, who still stood in the hallway waiting for his signal. Drizzt came beside his kinsman, kneeling down and patting his shoulder.

"It is good to see you among the living, old friend," Drizzt said, noting the almost purple circles around the mercenary's eyes and the tiny bits of white stubble that had sprouted from his normally smooth pate. He must have gone a while without shaving his head, another sight that turned Drizzt's stomach a little more.

Jarlaxle's smile widened as he looked up at Entreri. The assassin still wore his usual bored glare, though it seemed softened somehow.

"It is indeed good to be back," the mercenary replied, his voice becoming a little stronger as he became a bit more focused. "Our friend Barson says I am doing well."

"Quite well considering," the large man said with a smile and a small bow before looking at all of them. "I will leave all of you alone with your friend. Just holler when you need anything."

Barson gave a low bow then walked through the open door. Entreri glanced back and saw the momentarily confused look on the cleric's face as he saw his wife standing against the wall. He then shrugged slightly and continued down the stairs, occasionally looking back until he was completely out of sight.

The assassin's black eyes went back to his haggard companion. Seeing Jarlaxle in this state was more than his mind could take; he was visibly weak, unable to stand for long and lucky if he could hold a conversation. It almost felt like a small pang in his heart, a pang he had felt a few times, though allowed himself a rare moment to recognize the sensation.

"Are you well enough to tell us what happened out there?" Entreri asked calmly, his words not only the first stage in his plan but also words that held his emotions in a cage.

Jarlaxle lay back further and looked at the ceiling with a sigh. He was barely coherent enough for the truth let alone an outright lie that would go undetected by either his companions.

"In truth, I remember nothing," Jarlaxle said. "All I remember is walking down the beach and the rest is a black fog. Barson says I had a bleeding ulcer and chilled temperature; they all must have occurred during my walk."

"That's the simple way of putting it," Drizzt said, leaning back and taking a seat in the simple desk chair behind him. "In layman's terms, I would say it was you going into violent seizures while spitting up a small river of blood. Not an easy sight from our perspective. You can understand why we are a little hesitant right now."

Entreri betrayed no emotions, but he mentally applauded Drizzt's ability to be subtle for once. He was leading Jarlaxle into their trap perfectly; the only matter now was seeing if the master manipulator would bite. It was a long shot, though a near-death experience could humble anyone.

"As I noticed," Jarlaxle replied.

"So where do we go from here, Jarlaxle?" Entreri asked. "Our fearless navigator damn near died and is obviously not in the greatest of health."

"Your fearless navigator has this renewed enthusiasm for life and wishes very much to continue on as soon as he is in better shape," Jarlaxle responded without missing a beat. There were other factors at work besides that one, but the others had no need to know.

"Or the question should be; are you going to be an able navigator from now on?" Drizzt asked in almost a hiss.

It was a question that turned the Jarlaxle's stomach a little more. He knew there were so many forces hanging over him, yet was afraid he would collapse into uncontrollable sobs if he pondered them all; he was ill, Gromph's map was missing, and no way of knowing if their quarry was lurking down the beach like he was before. Then there was the fact all of them could die horrible deaths if they faced him. Once again, a wave of despair threatened to take him over; a wave that was the work of Moril, he thought hurriedly, nothing more.

The sad, tired look in his eyes told his companions everything. Drizzt and Entreri gave each other another look. Now was the perfect time to act. The assassin gave a quick glance back, not enough for Jarlaxle to notice, though enough for Hanna to see his extended glare. This is when her part of the plan took place. She casually left her perch on the wall with a blank expression and entered the room. Entreri glared at her as if annoyed by her presence; the master actor beginning his performance.

"I can't believe Barson forgot this," she huffed, walking towards Jarlaxle while reaching in her apron and drawing the bottle. "It looks like he left another stomach elixir on the table."

She came beside Jarlaxle and undid the cork. Drizzt suddenly rose and snatched the bottle from her hand with a scowl; eying the contents before giving a quick whiff before handing it back to her with a shrug and sitting back down. Entreri wanted to give more applause; he played his part perfectly and the quick glance the drow gave him signaled that the contents were indeed pure.

A small, fully conscious part of Jarlaxle's mind alerted the rest of him to the obvious signals, yet that part of him went to sleep soon too, though his overall suspicions were raised by the elixir. Regardless, he was too weak to protest Hanna leaning in, tilting his chin, and pouring the liquid down his throat. The elixir was sweet thought bore a tang…of obvious magical bite.

"That should cure your nausea for at least a little while," she said. "Now if you'll excuse me gentlemen."

She gave a nod as well as glares to all three, most profoundly on Entreri and Drizzt, before turning to the door, walking out, and closing the door, which Entreri latched as soon as she was gone. Now was when serious business began and the two had only about twenty minutes in which to do it.

Entreri reached in his pocket for a slow second before a blur flew before Jarlaxle and landed sharply on the bed. The mercenary looked down and wanted to wretch yet again; it was the map exactly as he had left it. He felt the parchment, the exact same consistency as Gromph's map and folded to where they were now.

Jarlaxle looked down at the parchment, then at his two companions, whose glares were fixed on him. He returned their glares with a patient smile, though a smile holding back a river of seething rage with many logs of hopelessness floating with the current. He had gone to so much trouble to hide this map, now it was out plain in the open. It was very likely that both of them had found it sometime when he was unconscious and had ample opportunity to examine it. It was yet another situation where he could have made a convenient excuse, though both looked ready for some kind of fight.

"I assume you recognize this," Drizzt said, noting his partner's disbelieving expression. "We can guess what it is, but I need you to tell us."

Jarlaxle paused for a second to fully comprehend the turn of events. He gave a small smile and quickly thought of a false explanation, happy that his haze was finally breaking.

"It is the map of our course toward Moril," he found himself saying against his will.

A truth elixir. Damn. A wave of emotions came over him; he wanted to weep and tear their throats out with his bare hands. Both of them would pay dearly for this later, so would Hanna if she was involved further in this plot than merely a tool.

Judging by Jarlaxle's plain, matter-of-fact speech accented by the seething look in his expressive red eyes and the helpless look on his face, the elixir worked perfectly. Drizzt savored the look of calm confusion on his face. He had been caught and he knew it, though the best was next.

"Who gave you this map?" Drizzt continued.

"Gromph Baenre," Jarlaxle said, his eyes blinking in resignation.

Entreri bit his lower lip and clenched his fist, though kept his expression stony. Drizzt merely gave Jarlaxle a dark look that betrayed nothing.

"Is Gromph paying you to find Moril?" Entreri asked.

"Yes," Jarlaxle said, knowing that his cover was officially blown and keeping anything up now was futile. His enchanted mind added a few extra truths to have this burden officially lifted…and to sneak in enough of the truth for him to build new manipulations on when the elixir wore off. "If we take him, the archmage is giving us a small chest of black diamonds to divide as we see fit."

It was an amount that had Drizzt gasping for a second. He looked back to see Entreri's gaze unchanged, though he slightly raised one eyebrow.

"Why does Gromph wish to capture Moril?" the human continued.

"He never told me specifically," Jarlaxle said. "Though I can only assume."

"What do you assume, Jarlaxle?" Drizzt asked stiffly.

"He wants to use the Moril as a tool in the takeover of House Baenre," Jarlaxle said, thankful that the potion was beginning to wear off, though he had already said too much. "Though that is only my speculation."

Entreri could have sword he saw Drizzt's pointed ears perk up like that of an amused dog at this news.

"Did he tell you what Moril is?" Entreri asked, knowing their time was running out.

"An ur-priest from a Sshamath cult," the mercenary answered. "No one else knows more."

The tingle in the back of his throat wore off and he lay back in bed with a relieved sigh caught on another gag. The potion had dissolved, though he had given them enough of the truth to chew over; though too much. His powerful, dangerous brother had trusted him with those secrets. If he ever found they had been revealed…

_You carry a great burden, my son, _a soothing voice said in his mind, a voice he painfully recognized, but allowed to lull him into safety. _Let me take care of the rest._

Jarlaxle's body grew heavy as he let out a cackle, though he had meant to stay quiet. He tried to still himself, though the cackles only came more and more as his thoughts became a mass of comforting shadows.

His two companions thought he was merely being his usual cheeky self, until his laughter became an unearthly mass that sounded like the call of a ghostly jackal. Jarlaxle's body seized and his eyes rolled back. Drizzt stood up, getting ready to call one of the clerics, until the covers came off the mercenary and his prone form rose off the mattress. Entreri glued himself to the wall, keeping a hand on his dagger and Charon's Claw, who almost seemed amused.

Jarlaxle's laughter continued, then his body shot straight up from the mattress, sending him to his legs in a rapid stand. His body was stiff for a second then he jumped to a crouch in front of the two, his face in a feral sneer as he glared at the human and the drow, letting out another cackle.

"So you clever little kids discovered the big secret," Jarlaxle sneered.

Drizzt and Entreri stayed at the ready; the assassin's mouth hanging slightly open while there was an empty look in the drow ranger's eyes. Jarlaxle seemed to drink in all of it, though neither of them saw Jarlaxle behind those cloudy red eyes at all.

"It's true, all of it," Jarlaxle continued in a dirty whisper. "My good old buddy Gromph decided to get off his fine, velvet chair and take some initiative in his pathetic existence; he is finally taking a shit without Triel's permission. Bravo to him!" Jarlaxle gave a mocking clap and another cackle.

"Though now the plot deepens a little," Jarlaxle continued. "Now Gromph has recruited the great champion of the great Masked God; Drizzt Do'Urden himself, Mielikki's former man whore now serving a darker solisiter." The mercenary leaned towards Drizzt, who saw his red eyes glow to a shade of sick yellow. "Tell me master Drizzt, man to man, when that fine young priest rams it up your ass, do you ever fantasize that he is Vhaeraun? It might as well be. Though I see Master Entreri remains on the right trail; it only took a couple dozen of said rammings from Tyr to gain the proper perspective."

Entreri felt his hand on his sword as his teeth clenched. He could taste Jarlaxle's blood on his blade…if he lost control to these mad ramblings. He loosened his grip with a deep breath and also noticed the yellow glow from Jarlaxle's eyes. The human's new senses were not active, though he could almost see his companion's form take on a shadowy outline. Something was controlling him.

"But I do digress," Jarlaxle continued with another laugh. "You not-so goodly gentlemen have seen the way to Moril, though there is one fact you were never told: you chase after Moril, you die. It is a simple fact, and I am the only one who can share it. Turn back now and you might live a little while longer, though I will say we have all gone beyond the final line."

Jarlaxle's normal, melodious lower tenor deepened and became harsher, though still bore the same elven grace in addition to sounding warped and hollow, something not from this world.

"It is already too late for me, though you have another chance to make the right decision. Two of the other so-called 'champions' have come empty handed to the realms of their masters, you could be next if I decide."

"Whoever you are," Drizzt said in a calm hiss, "release my friend now. He is of no concern to you."

"To the contrary," the being in Jarlaxle's body said, standing up as the small lamp along the wall took on a blue hue that bathed the rest of the room in glowing blackness. "This one concerns me greatly; an infant's corpse squeezed through Lolth's back end to enter this plane again as a parasite, I am greatly disgusted to even look at his corrupted flesh let alone wear it."

"You bore me," Entreri said, holding his seething rage behind a dour expression. "Do you have any other purpose in this little possession besides pathetic insults and idle threats?"

The shadows gathered like a cloak around Jarlaxle, who rolled his glowing, yellow eyes.

"I offer you both exclusive information and words of kind advice," the being said, "and this is your gratitude. You will see that I am not doing this service to the five others, who are all finding out the hard way. You are all too late; the process has begun that can only move forward from here. I would recommend changing to the winning side, though I doubt that would appeal to any of you"

"Many thanks for the advice," Drizzt replied, quickly drawing the shortsword from his back.

"So you wish to run your good friend through with that little sticker," the being tsked as Drizzt drew nearer, sword drawn.

Drizzt looked at Jarlaxle with determined eyes that gradually turned down as he sighed…words: "Jarlaxle Baenre come forth."

Jarlaxle's soul responded to his true name and began fighting the mental influence of Moril, though Moril was proving more powerful. He doubled over with a loud grunt.

"You fool!" Moril screamed, moving his hands in a casting.

Drizzt light stepped next to Jarlaxle and gently placed the tip of the sword against his leg.

"Vhaeraun, Masked God of Night," Drizzt shouted, his mind making up all the words, yet his will screaming to attempt something, "push this fiend out!"

Drizzt's entire mind thought of shadows, the mass of shadows that erupted from his body and pushed through the tip of the blade and into Jarlaxle. Jarlaxle screamed in a discordant din, though his eyes rolled back and changed back to their normal lively red and the shadows around him swirled.

A mass of cold came over Drizzt's body, yet he held firm. A few words then floated into his mind from a familiar voice:

_The puppy learned a new trick; I'm impressed._

"Jarlaxle Baenre, you son of a bitch," Drizzt shouted, bending his will and imagining the shadows absorbing Moril into oblivion, "come out here now!"

A mass of shadow came out Jarlaxle's mouth and from his ears. He screamed, though his voice was sounding more his own. Entreri pushed himself against the wall, his black eyes wide and his entire body numb to this scene. Every hair stood up as the mass of energy erupting from Drizzt's form into Jarlaxle threatened to send him to the floor. He registered a few gasps, though heard only Jarlaxle's scream.

The shadows dissipated as the lamp glowed its usual orange hue. Jarlaxle fell from the bed and landed on his hands and knees, whimpering, sobbing, and repeatedly screeching various words in Drow: the words "Get off me!" repeated over and over were the clearest.

Drizzt took his own gasping breath, adrenaline coursing through every vein. He ran to Jarlaxle's side, coming to his knees and taking a better look at his companion. Entreri slowly peeled himself off the wall and walked forward, his legs still feeling almost too heavy to move. Jarlaxle's trembling muscles calmed slightly as he let out a mass of dry heaves that preceded gasping breaths as he regained his senses. Drizzt looked up at the human, his own muscles trembling.

"I think this little vacation just got a bit more complicated," Drizzt said, forcing a laugh.

"I think," Entreri barked, slowly finding his voice again, "you all have a lot of explaining to do."


	12. The Comfort of Shadows

**The Lesser Evil: Hooligan's Holiday**

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of R.A. Salvatore/Wizards of the Coast ©. I don't own them; I'm just examining all their possibilities.

**Chapter 12: The Comfort of Shadows**

This could very well have been a typical night on the Sword Coast. The strong wind bore the chilled scent of brine and aged seaweed as it propelled the sails. On night like this, Drizzt could find Captain Deudermont casually maneuvering the wheel with one hand on as the held a fruity, smelling sweet roll his wife sent him out with. He would nibble on the roll as he exchanged combat tales with the drow, who would usually come out in a loose, cotton tunic expecting only a pleasant night with the Captain and occasionally Robillard in his better moods.

Sometimes dolphins would come out and greet them, even the occasional passing mermaid would toss a kiss to the crew before ducking back under the waves. Drizzt would always laugh and wave, feeling the usual sharp elbow in the ribs from Catti-brie, who would suddenly appear beside him.

"Ya fancy a dip with that 'un?" she would tease, her beautiful face in a jealous scowl, though the dance behind her deep blue eyes would betray her mirth.

He would merely chuckle and her face would always turn up into that playful smirk. The wind would toss around her wild auburn hair under the moon, making it a deeper shade of red.

A shade or rich, bloody red that poured down her neck...

Drizzt lightly smacked his knuckle against the railing, enough to create a burning sting that would rattle him from this unwanted recollection. He shook his head and took a draw from his clove stick; the sweet, yet pungent smoke reawakening his senses. He never thought it would be this hard to travel by boat again.

Another recollection forced a smile on his face. He reached into his belt pouch and drew a dull red disk which took on a slight glow after he said a command word.

"We met Moril," Drizzt said into the small disk in his hand, "and Jarlaxle nearly died in the encounter. We travel now to Saerloon. We need you here now."

A command word later, the red glow flared white for a second before the stone became dull. The brief magical message to Mazn'reysla was sent, when and where he would receive it was a different story entirely. Drizzt sighed, putting the disk back in his belt pouch as his lavender eyes focused once again on the wide expanse of the Dragonmere before him. He took a long draw from his clove stick and blew out a stream that was caught in the salty wind and blown back in his face. The sun had set an hour ago, making the water around the small boat an eerie shade of ink black.

Drizzt pulled his cloak closer around his body, trying to block out the chill that seemed to creep through every small cranny of his skin. He managed to block out the cold, salty wind, yet he knew there was little he could do about the deeper cold in his flesh; the unnerving chill he had felt in some form since last night; since the moment he channeled the essence of Vhaeraun's shadows through his being that purged Moril from Jarlaxle's body. The lingering sensation was unnerving, though for some reason he welcomed it; it gave his mind a kind of peace as the chill invigorated him, despite all mental screams that he should be more concerned. It was said that channeling the essence of shadows could burn away a part of one's soul; especially the part that fueled warmth and compassion. A part of Drizzt believed it…the same part that wanted that part burned away anyway.

The death of the soul screams to the gods, though this time Drizzt was little concerned with the presence of any gods in the experience; even his own. He channeled Vhaeraun's power, yes, thought it was the power itself that put an extra beat in his heart. Maybe this was an experiment worth repeating, he thought with a grin.

A warm glow emanated from his belt pouch and he immediately reached down to retrieve the stone inside. Mazn'reysla must have gotten the message he thought as he said the command.

"You travel to Saerloon?" the cleric's voice asked. "I take it you are done with the two clerics."

The glow faded from the stone. Drizzt smirked and gave a small chuckle before saying the command again.

"You know much," he said. "Actually they were done with us, it seems. They kindly informed us of a passing cargo ship, hinting where we should go."

"They did not care of Moril's presence in their house?"

The stone faded and Drizzt paused, the words "you son of a bitch" whispered from his now grimacing lips before saying the command again.

"I'm not asking how you know that, but they were either unaware or unconcerned. Regardless, we are on the boat now."

"How fares our kinsman?"

"Not much better. He doesn't speak, barely eats, mostly sleeps though not in Reverie. You would serve me better in person than hearing stories from Vhaeraun."

"I already serve you better learning more of Moril that he cared to show you."

Drizzt's eyebrows rose, though he was still unamused.

"Found anything useful?"

The glow faded, though Drizzt could almost see Mazn'reysla's usual smile.

"When do you arrive in Saerloon?" the cleric asked.

"Our captain estimates before next sunset, though I trust this boat and our addled, drunken captain little."

"Have faith. You have much enlightenment ahead of you."

"That's reassuring. I also want some black skinned tail ahead of me too."

"You do miss me don't you?"

The stone faded and Drizzt allowed himself a dirty laugh.

"Yeah, I miss you," Drizzt groaned. "Just be there."

"In due time," the cleric replied. "Remember my words, as well as the name Hallia Mourbasin. Rest well."

The stone faded, leaving Drizzt to eye it with a confused glare. He sighed and returned the device to his belt pouch. He had become so used to the cleric's cryptic messages that he learned to store them away awaiting further hints before breaking his brain too much. Drizzt looked back out at the sea and taking another long draw; the small burn in his chest told him he had inhaled some of the smoke, yet he did not care that much.

-------------

"Staying awake a little longer?" Entreri said in a calm hiss.

As expected, Jarlaxle said nothing.

The assassin snorted and leaned back in his wooden chair, putting another dab of oil on Charon's Claw and trying to keep his only focus on the red blade. For the hundredth time, he found his gaze wandering back to the side, even though his mind screamed at him to resist the temptation. He sighed and gave in.

Jarlaxle was still lying down in his flimsy cot, hands folded casually on his chest and his red eyes open and fixed on the plank wood ceiling of the lower deck. He blinked a few times, yet the vacant look in those deep orbs sent a tiny chill through the normally hardened human. He turned away for a second out of a gut-reaction, yet he cursed himself for it later.

He passed his whetstone over Charon's Claw and pried his eyes back to Jarlaxle. The pitiful oil lamp on the green crate in the corner did well to illuminate the drow's grayish complexion and sunken eyes. He almost looked old. Jarlaxle wasn't supposed to look old. In the dim light, Entreri could also make out the thick layer of white stubble that had sprouted over his head. This combined with his untucked white tunic and shabby trousers made him look like the husk of Jarlaxle and not the man himself.

"You look like the Hells," the assassin spat, giving some voice to his discomfort. "I remember when we would be in the middle of the woods covered in mosquitoes and you would always stop first thing in the morning and break out that nifty little razor of yours. Now your hair is growing back and your clothing is a mess. Now you are just letting yourself go, _abbil_."

Normally it was a snide comment that would provoke a snide retort. Jarlaxle, however, remained silent, as he had since last night. He walked onto the boat on his own power, though he had never left this cot all day. Mostly he slept, rarely he would sit up, and occasionally he would shift to his side; eyes always vacant making no noise.

"At least I am free of your senseless blathering for a while," he added. "I have to say I am savoring this."

Once again, Jarlaxle made no response.

Entreri looked back at his sword, dragging the whetstone hard over the blade and almost feeling it purr. He never imagined the day he wanted to hear a witty retort or some random story about his encounter with a particularly charming bar wench. The silence was actually making him even more uncomfortable.

One more scrape of a whetstone screamed over the blade, causing Jarlaxle to noticeably flinch. At least he was responding to outside stimuli; a thought that was hardly reassuring. Entreri hastily rose, sheathing his sword and light stepping to the door, not looking back at all as he climbed the small ladder to the upper deck. He could hear Captain Matty singing to himself as he steered the boat, though he paid no mind. The sight of the stringy haired, disheveled human only reminded him too much of what he just saw. The captain of _The Green Maiden_, who Barson insisted was a friend and fellow cleric, tossed the assassin a wink before his eyes went back to the sea and his mind went back to his song.

Entreri then saw Drizzt leaning on the rear railing casually, taking an idle puff from his clove before tossing it into the sea. He clutched the mast and stared at the drow. The two had barely spoken since last night. Right after Drizzt led Jarlaxle back to bed, the clerics rushed up and silence ensued from there. His glare bored through the back of his head, yet he could feel little anger at him no matter how much he wanted to; all his anger was a series of mental screams that seemed futile even when they passed.

Damn Drizzt for wielding the sword of his bastard of a god, he thought, looking up at the cloudy sky and clutching the wood hard. Damn Jarlaxle for dragging them all into this shit in the first place. Damn Jarlaxle for being made of breakable flesh and blood easily spilled. Damn Moril for prying his way into the body of…his old friend? Damn him for letting another person toy with his emotions anyway. Damn Moril for playing with his emotions for him. Damn Tyr for destroying his emotions in the first place and damn Kelemvor for shoving his existence in his face. Damn them all and maybe they would end up a little more damned than he was.

"You have served no one but yourself, Artemis Entreri," the Lord of the Dead lectured him before sticking him on that damn wall.

Entreri gave a heavy sigh and dug his fingertips harder into the mast, driving a splinter into his index finger though he barely noticed.

Don't lose control, Artemis, he scolded himself in a weak mental voice. It was a futile effort regardless and he knew it.

Drizzt slowly turned back and saw the black eyes shooting weak daggers into him. He could tell by the expression on his face Jarlaxle had hardly improved, though he was too tired to inquire. He had little desire for conversation and would likely get nothing but another punch if he pushed the human too far. Artemis looked to be in one of his unnerved moods which scared Drizzt more than seeing him in battle. He intimately knew the facial expression of one on the edge. This time the edge was a little keener on the human than he had ever thought possible.

Drizzt walked over to him, stopping for a second and giving him his own tired glare before walking towards the main hold, tossing a wave to Matty, who tossed back one of his own. The old captain had once bragged of drinking with a hundred drow in his time; Drizzt's race did little to faze him.

Entreri looked back at Drizzt, containing a shiver from the cold air or the shiver in his soul, whichever was the coldest at the moment. The momentary shiver grew stronger, then a pulse of cold surged through his body. He let out a shrill gasp as the wave passed, then returned. Drizzt heard the gasp and swung around, finding both scimitars in his hands as he faced off against his companion.

The assassin doubled over for a second, letting out a small growl as another surge of cold passed through his skin. He looked over to see Drizzt looming over him, swords in hand and eying him in scared rage. He took a breath and got control of his senses, yet his guard was at its highest.

"I am not the one you should fear," Entreri said, looking up at the sky and drawing his own blades. "Those should be coming shortly."

Drizzt narrowed his eyes before his ears caught a loud screech from the sky. Both assassins looked up as several winged shapes came into view against the cloudy sky.

"_Vith_!" Drizzt growled, taking a running leap on the roof of the hold while sheathing his scimitars.

He reached behind his back and pulled out the fine, green bow he took from Sir Wenthias' ranger lackey, Fielder. In an instant, he had an arrow nocked, aimed, and fired at the nearest circling creature. The arrow surged at the creature with a screeching whistle and a trail of green sparks, smacking into the fiend and setting off an explosion that rendered the thing to a falling splatter. He would have to thank Aden for the exploding arrows later, though this bow packed a wallop.

He reached behind and in a flash another arrow was let loose at another creature, destroying the thing in another hail of ruin.

"They're coming!" Entreri shouted, watching as the fiends made a rapid descent towards the boat.

Drizzt whipped the bow back in its quiver as a black, leathery creature in the form of a seven foot tall, burly human and the face of a dog swooped down rapidly and tasted the frozen metal of Icingdeath. The devil screamed, though lunged again. WraithKiss sliced off part of one wing while Icingdeath made a low cut for the abdomen. The creature made a long claw for Drizzt's neck, though the drow ducked to a low crouch, slicing it in half with a cross cut as he saw another devil screech down at Entreri.

The second fiend managed to strike Entreri on the leg with its wing before the wing was cleanly sliced off by Charon's Claw, the jeweled dagger thrusting into the skull and twisting. The creature managed to dislodge the dagger and claw smoking scratches across the human's face, though Entreri only growled and thrusted Charon's Claw through its neck. Black blood spurted like a fountain as the sword swung around and took off the thing's head. The devil flailed around, its remaining wing twitching and beating against the human, who took one hard blow before dodging away and slicing it in half with his sword.

"Just fucking die already!" he screamed as the devil fell to the deck and was shoved aside by another devil swooping at him.

The dagger sliced off the tip of one wing, though the beat of another smacked into his already injured side, sending him back and the creature practically on top of him. He dodged to the side and watched the creature slam on the deck. As he thrust his saber in the thing's back, he caught a glimpse of Icingdeath shoving through the lower jaw of another devil, who clawed at Drizzt and scored a deep gash across his side. Drizzt managed to dodge away before the claw had any chance tear his liver into mince while slicing down into its neck with WraithKiss. The thing must have learned the dodge because it swung its long neck away, only losing a few scales as it beat its wing at the drow, who did a back flip to avoid the impact.

Entreri twisted the blade and watched the creature flail before driving his dagger into the back of its head, ending the twitch. Another devil careened towards him. He jumped up and sliced the thing's throat. Hardly deterred, the creature clawed down the human's chest, leaving a deep gash before losing its arm to Charon's Claw as the dagger drove into its heart. The thing twitched, beating Entreri with its wings and nearly knocking him senseless before the dagger sliced through the gash in its throat again, taking off its head in a spray of blood before it finally went down.

Drizzt landed a double thrust into the scaly belly of one devil and sliced off its head a moment later in a cross cut, only to find its friend beating its twitching body aside and landing its clawed feet into Drizzt's chest, sending him to the ground. The thing would have crushed his ribcage had he not kicked up, his own feet landing in the stomach of the devil as he practically floated back to his feet in a crouch, a cross cut taking out its legs as a double thrust landed squarely in its heart. A long squirt of black blood gushed over the dark elf, who kicked the creature aside and hacked it in half.

The drow looked up to see at least five more creatures circling the boat; one bearing the load of a burly humanoid who became clearer as it passed the sail.

"I promised my vengeance, drow!" Toamroth screamed, one clawed hand holding the back scales of his devil as the other pointed a finger down at Drizzt. "Your weak, elven god cannot save you from the wrath of Baayynne!"

"You're dead, half-breed!" Entreri screamed, running towards the tiefling's mount with raging fire in his dark eyes.

Drizzt wanted to reach for his bow, though another creature was swooping down in his direction. He leapt in the air with a growl as Icingdeath and WraithKiss sliced out and pieces of the devil landed on the deck beside the dark elf coming to his feet. He started to sheathe his blades again when a force slammed into his back. He tried to brace his legs against the deck, but the battle had sapped his energy. He fell to the wood, though the adrenaline surging through his body made him push up off the planking and twist around to his feet, lavender eyes meeting the blue-gold orbs of the elven wizard rematerializing in front of him to shoot off another set of magic missiles. Drizzt took them full on, the burn through his chest igniting a firestorm.

Drizzt gave an animalistic howl and charged full on at Linuin. The moon elf screeched seeing nothing but a raging, sword wielding beast coming right at him. He started running back to the deck as a demon swooped down in front of Drizzt. The moon elf looked away for a second, only to look back and see the devil in a heap of pieces as the drow still charged at him; lavender eyes taking on an unreal glow. Another devil landed beside him and fell to pieces in a hail of whirring blades a second later. Linuin gathered his wits and launched a stream of ice straight at the raging drow. The stream hurled against his chest, snapping many ribs and sending him back first on the deck.

Drizzt lay senseless for not even a second before picking himself up to the burning agony in his body that nearly sent him down again. Linuin's lined face twisted into a satisfied grin as he watched Toamroth swoop down to deck behind the drow, his mace raised before Vhaeraun's champion could charge at him.

Entreri sliced off the wing of another devil, his peripheral vision catching silver hair and bluish-white skin of a blue-robed moon elf. He took a swipe at another charging devil, hitting only air while dodging to the side and seeing Linuin standing in front of a dazed Drizzt as the tiefling aimed his mace over his head. The assassin charged forward, only to feel a set of claws digging hard into the flesh of his back. Another winged figure came up beside and dug its claws into the other side of his shoulder. He slashed out, though the movement was only tearing his flesh more as his feet lifted off the deck and the air blasted through his hair.

Drizzt caught the sight of his human companion being dragged into the air as he felt a burning heat across his skull, though a heat that dissipated as soon as it began. With a sudden surge of his last remaining energy, Icingdeath thrust through the moon elf's stomach. He spun around, his vision becoming blurry though still catching the sight of Toamroth falling on deck with two longswords thrust through each lung. The swords disengaged a cross cut slicing him in half, another whir of blades taking off his arms, legs and head. Pieces of the tiefling's body fell to deck with splats, joining the pieces of the devil lying at the feet of the bald, blood-soaked dark elf standing over the carnage with a grim sneer. Drizzt looked into Jarlaxle's red eyes with a weak grin as he fell to his knees, his energy spent as his eyes closed and the rest of him collapsed.

Entreri felt numb as he watched the site. Jarlaxle had broken his trance and slaughtered the tiefling, though right before Drizzt fell. The image on the boat became fainter the higher he felt himself flying. The devils carrying him started to separate, tearing his flesh apart. He let out another scream and flailed more, though the pain was overwhelming his senses.

This is it, a small part of his brain whimpered.

He flailed more, feeling the skin on his back begin to tear more. He tried to point his blades back at a foot, a torso, anything; though they were merely waving in the air. This was only prolonging the inevitable; the black fog, the appearance before Kelemvor, the writhing corpses on…

Entreri let out a piercing scream, though he stopped flailing and continued screeching.

You coward, his mind roared at him. You will not leave this world…

The thoughts in his mind died as a terrible, icy calm came over him. He flying towards eternal damnation; there was nothing he could do and no one could…

Entreri didn't know why this came into his mind next. Maybe it was hearing the name regularly; maybe it was his own instinct crying out for some means of survival.

He took a deep breath and wailed through all space and time:

"_Vhaeraun!_"

A mass of shadows swept up from the sea and enveloped him and the devils in a deafening silence save for the familiar, amused voice in his head; "You called?"

A series of hideous cackles pierced the air. The devils shrieked and opened their talons. Entreri fell to the water, though imagined a plume of shadow breaking his fall and sweeping him gently in the air. He looked up and saw shadows surging through the bodies of the devils as they writhed and dissipated into a falling rain of black blood.

The shadow cradled his trembling form, its cold feeling like a familiar comfort. He flew through the air on the wave of shadow and the numbing, ethereal calm. His mind was blank and he would have preferred nothing different. Soon the air under his feet became planking and the comforting shadows around his body dissipated, leaving his torn, bleeding form exposed to the sea air.

Jarlaxle stood and stared at him with an expression of blank concern. His sleeve was torn off, exposing ebony skin marred with deep red marks. Captain Matty, who had managed to flee the carnage, was laying hands glowing hands on Drizzt, who was now sitting up; dazed, though still conscious. The drow's bleary, lavender eyes regarded the human, seeing the shadows fade.

He should be dead, was the phrase that floated through the numb minds of both as they stared at each other. Jarlaxle's face formed into a warm smile; the last of his own numbness still lingering, though passing with the ache from the scratches across his arm.

"You look like the Hells," the mercenary managed to say, his voice still weak.

Entreri stood dazed, the comfort wearing off as his remaining adrenaline crashed in on him. He let out a long, gasping sigh before falling to his knees and burying his head in his hands.

You must control…his mind whimpered for a second before all control, all words, all instincts melted away into a mass of warm sobs.


	13. Champions

**The Lesser Evil: Hooligan's Holiday**

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of R.A. Salvatore/Wizards of the Coast ©. I don't own them; I'm just examining all their possibilities.

**Chapter 13: Champions**

The moon elf's body hit the steps with a series of loud thuds, making their own series of searing jolts against his legs, ribs, and ay other part of his frail being. At last he knew the hard comfort of the floor just as his bleary eyes opened again to behold the knotted beams of the ceiling, on which he concentrated and allowed the burning ache to have its way before fading.

He looked up, then over at the stairs from which he was bounced…then to the same dark elf he had seen in a frenzied rage earlier not looking down at him with a sweet smile.

"_Mae govannen, _Linuin," the drow said, slowly making his way down the stairs.

It was a sight that immediately broke the wizard from his wounded trance, sending a surge of adrenaline through his body that created the natural response of fight or, in Linuin's case at the moment, flight. He leapt like a scared squirrel, only to be slammed to the floor by a strong, yet subtle force against the center of his back, bruising his tailbone and sending him in a fetal position. He looked up and saw the human, mussed, bloody black hair strewn over his exposed, mangled shoulders, standing over him; black eyes boring through him like those of a beast ready to snack on every one of his internal organs in one bite.

Linuin Daisner was a crafty, cruel elven schemer. He had murdered countless beings through poison, magic, and the rare blade over the five centuries of his life. He was an expert at maintaining his cool…until confronted with two snarling animals standing over his injured, prone body.

Drizzt stood in the doorway for a second and glared at the wizard with a sneer; savoring every twitching muscle, every high whimper, ever spill of sweat from the coward. He didn't know what he was enjoying more, the sight of the sniveling moon elf, who had once looked so smug slamming spells into him, or the disheveled, blood and mud caked Entreri, whose emotional tumult went from a mass of breathy sobs earlier to simmering rage burning blue hot. It was like a keg of smokepowder had opened up before him and all he needed to do was toss a match; potential chaos at its best and all from two typically ice cold beings. The beauty of it all made Drizzt want to weep.

Linuin's mind told him to ready the last three spells in his deleted repertoire, though the rest of his body was solid ice broken by the occasional twitch. His eyes were locked first on the human, who eyed him as if examining him inside and out before looking back at the drow with an expression communicating something the same way animals would. The drow nodded, his feral gaze focused on Linuin as he stepped forward. The dark elf stepped with a small, almost inconspicuous limp. His shoulders were slightly stiff and his graceful movements not as smooth. The fact he was even standing after both the moon elf's magical assaults and Toamroth's scraping blow to his head was astounding. Here he was obviously recovering from his injuries, but he must have received some good healing.

As did I, Linuin thought with a shiver, his stomach still churning from a scimitar's icy blow.

"So tell me, _mellon_," Drizzt sneered, emphasizing the Elven word for "friend" in a chilling his as he crouched down and stuck his face into Linuin's and receiving a sharp flinch in response, "will your Banite master be coming here to pick up your corpse or should we have it delivered to him?"

Linuin was going to give a snide retort, though all his words were a series of sputters. Drizzt looked up at Entreri, who kept to the side, muscles honed for any sudden movements. The drow's icy lavender orbs locked directly into the moon elf's bulging, blue-gold eyes, almost beckoning some form of challenge. Instead Linuin's mind became a chaotic mass that occasionally poured past his vocal cords; a sight that made Drizzt's sneering grin wider.

"Well I do bear some good news," Drizzt continued, his grin now beaming as his ebony hand flung forward and a small, hard object landed in his lap. Linuin looked down and started screaming, staring at Toamroth's bloody horn while flailing his legs trying to get it off. Drizzt picked up the horn and caressed the tip down the moon elf's bluish cheek. "You were the lone survivor of that little inconvenience. The rest of that one is a pile of ashes one with the wind. The bad news is, that gives us only you on which to place any responsibility for tonight's fun and games.

A second later, the horn was off his face as a searing burn exploded from his right hand. He looked down to see the black horn protruding from the back of his hand, the tip firmly embedded into the wooden floor. He frantically tried to pull his hand up, though the spastic movement only conjured more pain. The dark elf's hand gently clutched him, slowly twisting and producing pure agony.

"Needless to say," Drizzt said, rubbing his nose against Linuin's, "we don't take very kindly to those who try to kill us."

The statement was punctuated by the scream of a blade coming from its scabbard. Linuin's frantic gaze was forward, though the sight of a red blade held close to his neck from behind was only conjuring more whimpers.

"We were at least hoping that you had some eloquent final words," the drow said. "'May Corellon curse you,' 'Please, oh please I beg you,' and 'Aaaack' are never fitting for a truly decent _tel-quessir_. I was hoping you could entertain us with some poetry, especially any verse we can use."

"I-I-I-I swear I am not the one who orchestrated this attack," Linuin burst out, his voice a mass of quivers.

"You're disappointing me, elf," Entreri said coldly, holding Charon's Claw close enough to his neck so he could feel the shadows from the blade wanting to consume him.

"N-n-n-no! It was the tiefwing," Linuin cried, his normally eloquent speech becoming greatly impeded. "Toamroth came to me and forced me into a mission for Bane. I'm just a hirespell, a lowly mercenary and he is Bane's Second to the Champion."

"He was Bane's Second to the Champion," Drizzt said, suddenly intrigued. "What did the tiefling tell you exactly?"

"He woke me from Trance, saying Bane had ordered the deaths of Vhaeraun's Champion and Second," Linuin said, his voice still trembling but becoming more resigned. "Sir Wenthias could not know because he insisted Bane favored him over his father. All he needed was a caster and he could execute both of you."

The swift movement passed in front of his face one second, immediately followed by a searing pain in his other hand. He screamed and looked over to find a simple dagger stuck through his hand and into the wood. He didn't bother to test if his hand was embedded into the wood.

"Execute who?" Drizzt calmly hissed.

Linuin spent a few seconds whimpering, which only became louder when he saw the looks exchanged by the drow and the human.

"Y-y-y-you!" Linuin sputtered. "Y-you and the human."

"Yes, I heard that the first time, ass," Drizzt replied. "Though I am sure you and the current pile of bloody tiefling flesh meant your pathetic attempts on me and my drow associate. The human is obviously insignificant and you were a fool for assuming otherwise. Death will be a welcome release from your stupidity."

Drizzt passed a look to Entreri clearly communicating he was testing the sniveling elf; a test that Entreri anticipated, knowing this might not go on a very pleasant direction.

"I s-s-s-swear, Toamroth insisted that you are the human were to be killed," Linuin whined. "He said nothing of the dwow, only you and the human were Vhae-wan's chosen and Bane's enemies."

Drizzt cocked his eyebrow in doubt, though Entreri's deepened scowl and animalistic look in his eyes indicated something was amiss. In a blur of motion, Linuin was sunk on the ground and wailing, the side of his forehead bearing a small cut oozing blood as the human continued rapidly kicking his body and punching him in the head and shoulders. Drizzt sat still for a second, moving back slightly as he examined every one of the assassin's moves; every rapid punch, every snarl, every audible growl. As much as he enjoyed seeing the human fully giving into a state of chaos, he knew he couldn't allow this to continue.

"Artemis!" Drizzt barked, forcing his diaphragm to push out air in a loud, yet even tone.

The sound of his own name burst through the storm in Entreri's brain. He gave Linuin one last backhand across the jaw before taking a long, deep breath and looking at Drizzt. The dark elf's look of impatience mixed with a hint of legitimate concern was enough to bring him back to himself for that crucial second. The assassin knew at that time he had to shut all of it out; the memories, the power of the shadows, the possibility of disastrous exaltation by a vile god he screamed to in his moment of shameful panic…whose presence comforted him if only in that one second.

Entreri looked back down at Linuin, who crashed to his back and whimpered; a sight he found the ultimate satisfaction. Adrenaline continued surging through his veins, though he took a few deep breaths and channeled it into a more controlled place in his mind; much like a dog herding sheep.

The inner struggle was painted clearly on his face; a sight Drizzt found both rewarding and disturbing.

"We discussed this before, old friend," Drizzt whispered, carefully taking a few steps closer to the assassin, who gave him a tired glare. "Whatever we gain or lose from this journey as individuals, we need to work together lest everything around us destroy us both; that includes keeping a certain element of honesty to each other. With that said, I need to know one thing; does this whelp speak lies to save his own skin, or have you had more contact with Vhaeraun than I know."

Entreri digested the words with great difficulty.

"In truth," the assassin choked, his face turning into a mad smirk, "Vhaeraun likes fucking with our heads."

Drizzt let out an involuntary cackle followed by a swift nod.

"Truer words have not been spoken," the drow said with a maddened, nervous laugh.

"Gentlemen," a voice called from behind.

After a rush of movement, Drizzt and Entreri found their blades in their hands aimed for Jarlaxle, who stood in front of them with a wide grin.

"Jumpy aren't we," the mercenary said cocking a high white eyebrow.

Drizzt and Entreri pulled their blades back, yet kept them drawn as they stared at Jarlaxle in guarded relief. His gray shirt was fresh as was his black leather vest, though the shirt was untucked and the vest unbuttoned. Despite his disheveled appearance, the sight of his angled face framed by that huge, plumed hat with one eye covered with a jeweled eyepatch was a glorious sight for them both. His visible eye was still sunken and his complexion was still slightly pale compared to its usual deep ebony. White hair was still visible around the sides of his head, another sight reminding his two companions that he was not entirely back to himself…though this was a fine start.

Jarlaxle's mental haze continued to fade as he saw the amazed, yet suspicious looks from his two companions and drank them in.

"I think you should take a break from torturing that poor, poor wizard to come up and take a look at something," the mercenary said, his voice stronger, though still tired.

Drizzt and Entreri looked back at the moon elf, then at each other. Drizzt shrugged and walked over to Linuin, who gave a harsh whine at the sight of the dark elf. The next thing he saw was the pommel of a scimitar rushing in front of his face before a sharp pain faded into blackness.

Entreri could tell by the elf's strong, yet shallow breaths that he would be taking a little nap for a while. He gave Drizzt a nod then looked back at Jarlaxle, who shrugged before walking up the stairs to the main deck. Drizzt enthusiastically fell into step behind his kinsman; the feel of blood oozing to his hand from Icingdeath's pommel put him in a cheerier mood than he was in before. The mood was enough for him not to register Entreri's presence until a sharp tug on his arm jerked him back hard.

Entreri pulled Drizzt's face into his, leaving the ranger to face those cold black eyes at a distance more dangerously intimate than he would have preferred. Entreri wore a patient, yet annoyed expression.

"Jarlaxle _Baenre_?" the assassin said, emphasizing the last word.

Drizzt's face took on a confused look which became slightly unsettled. Entreri could see the realization set in as if it were a sunset. He responded with a tiny sneer that showed the drow he read his thoughts, an easy expression for Drizzt to understand.

"Honesty, old friend," the assassin said in a calm voice that had the hair on the back of Drizzt's neck standing on end.

The human stiffly patted him on the shoulder with a smirk before walking up the stairs and not surprised at all when he felt Drizzt's footsteps a few feet behind him.

----------

"Ain't that the damndest thing, Matty mumbled to himself.

He looked down to his pocket briefly to retrieve a pouch of pipeweed before letting his eyes fall back to the carnage in front of him. He idly took a pinch of weed and tamped it into the bowl of his clay pipe, pocketing the pouch and looking back to see the three rogues approaching him. The captain shrugged and returned his attentions to the water, hearing the sharp intakes of breath from the human and the younger drow as they must have looked out.

"Gotta light?" Drizzt roughly asked the captain, idly drawing a pre-rolled clove stick from his belt and coming beside him at the rail.

Matty looked at him with a smirk, reaching into his deep pocket and producing a small contraption consisting of a piece of flint welded to a piece of steel by the ends. Drizzt looked at the object with a cocked eyebrow. Matty smiled wider, putting his pipe in his mouth, squeezing the handle of the contraption, and producing a small shoot of flame which he carefully lowered into the bowl.

He then raised the spark device and offered it to the drow. Drizzt chuckled, putting the stick between his lips and leaning down to catch the tip in the flame. He took a draw and laughed.

"That's interesting," the drow said.

"By the grace O' Gond," the cleric replied, putting the contraption back in his belt.

Drizzt took a draw while looking out at the water, then at Entreri, whose face was completely blank as he beheld the sight before them, though his jaw had dropped slightly.

Drizzt leaned on the rail and blew out a long stream, the bluish-white smoke trailing towards the ship twenty feet away. It was a simple, light brown vessel with the name _Moon Witch_ painted in gold along the torn bow. The vessel itself showed minimal damage, though the same could not be said of the life aboard. The deck was strewn with bodies of various uniforms and various states of mutilation. Three sailors lay dead below the mast; their entrails ripped out and wound up the mast like vines. Bodies flayed like a dissected rabbit were nailed to the sails, insides oozing out like streamers.

As he scanned the ship, his eyes widened as he caught the long tail of gold scales on one far end of the deck behind the main hold. The noble, yet still head of what was undoubtedly a young gold dragon. His claws were cut off and pieces of and patches of scaly flesh were peeled from his sinewy muscles.

Drizzt looked back again at Entreri, who had crept beside him at the railing; eyes fixed on the ship as his breath became staggered. He then looked at Jarlaxle, whose face was completely blank as he regarded the scene idly.

Jarlaxle's dull senses registered the carnage, though his centuries of experience in the art of slaughter gave him no emotions regarding this…except the deep, unexplainable sensation of…validation? Satisfaction? For what reason?

He shuddered to think on it; the small twinge in the parts of his consciousness that Moril violated. His red eyes scanned the bodies on the sails, then reached one body in particular. It was a woman with long, braided brown hair; her armor of silver leather in tact, save for around her stomach where the top of the mast protruded through her body. Her hands and feet were nailed into the mast, leaving her bent backwards over the mast…like a contortionist.

Drizzt soon caught the sight of the woman, noting the silver pendant of a pair of beautiful eyes surrounded by stars hanging from her neck. He stared at hard at the woman's body, trying to decide if this offended him or not. He dug within himself, trying to feel some faint amount of outrage. He then sighed; his only emotions towards this scene were empathy.

"The champion of Selune?" Drizzt asked, a shudder going through his body at the thought.

"Vasha Milian, warrior-priestess," Jarlaxle blurted, then blanched.

Drizzt and Entreri glared at Jarlaxle, who immediately felt ill.

"What the Hells did you just say?" Entreri calmly growled.

Jarlaxle paused, staring up at the body and realizing the terror of the information that just came to him. Maybe Moril left a piece of his own knowledge in him. He concentrated for a second as more became clear in his head.

"Do we even need to ask how you know that?" Drizzt groaned.

Jarlaxle gave a long sigh.

"With due respect to the cleric, do you know the names of the others?" Drizzt continued, looking at Matty, who shrugged and walked towards the wheel.

Jarlaxle tried to stop the flood of information, but it just poured out as he closed his eyes.

"Seron Wenthias, paladin of Torm," he continued. "Jordani Pilazi, rogue of Tymora."

"You lying son of a bitch!" Entreri hissed, rushing forward before Drizzt held him back and he pursued no more.

The assassin then kicked the rail hard with a grunt. Drizzt sighed and looked back at him.

"Pilazi's little bastard?" Drizzt asked, taking a draw and feeling his head ache.

"It is not possible," Entreri said, leaning on the rail before smacking it.

"And another Wenthias claims the sponsorship of…Bane's archenemy." Drizzt said.

Jarlaxle nodded.

"Sir Gherbod Wenthias, Blackguard of Bane," the mercenary continued. "And Arik Madsalar, ranger of Malar."

Drizzt stiffened and sneered at Jarlaxle, taking a long drag and blowing the smoke in his face.

"Our little friend Fielder," Entreri groaned.

"A tool of the Beastlord," Drizzt continued. "You do know of what other deity that one calls ally, right Jarlaxle?"

Jarlaxle eyed him with a tired glare.

"Are you accusing me of anything?" the mercenary replied.

"Never suggested it," Drizzt replied. "If you were the Spider Queen's pawn, Moril would turn you into a more permanent trophy."

"It could mean nothing," Entreri gently barked. "Except Mazn'reysla may not have known what he was talking about. How many more champions are there, Jarlaxle?"

"Drizzt Do'Urden, ranger of Vhaeraun," Jarlaxle said, the words coming smoothly from his mouth, the information as obvious as the names of the previous though turned his stomach more. Drizzt had also lead them astray, though he was too unfocused to think on that now. "The list ends."

Drizzt took a last drag and stared at Jarlaxle, waiting for a reaction that never came.

_Shar's name is mentioned nowhere_, Entreri signed to Drizzt. _What did Moril do to piss off Malar?_

Drizzt shrugged. He had dealt enough with the worshippers of the Beastlord to know he disliked them. He appreciated their lust for carnage, though their more animalistic tendencies made them a chore to bargain with. His main point of contention with Malar's flock was their practice of especially gruesome slayings on any surface elf in sight. It kept goodly pests away, though the activity still angered him, especially after finding the remains of allies strewn about the borders of his forest.

The fact Malar was an ancient associate of Lolth was usually a point of annoyance, though in this circumstance it could be an ill portent. All it took was the Master of the Hunt having one visit with his little spider friend before putting Fielder on his quest for matters to become sticky for Vhaeraun's champion.

Drizzt's reverie was suddenly broken by a rush of movement to his side. He looked up to see Jarlaxle levitating toward the broken ship, whose bow was now six feet away from theirs, though anchored.

"Jarlaxle," Entreri called, though the drow was far gone.

Drizzt and Entreri looked up and saw Jarlaxle now floating towards the mast, making a straight line for Selune's mangled champion.

The mercenary's mind was blank, his only instinct telling him to go to the woman. He paid no mind to the corpses around him, only the beautiful, bloody woman in front of him. At last Vasha's pale, peaceful face was in front of him. Her beautiful skin glowed under the clouds, though the moon almost peeked out. He raised an ebony hand and gently stroked her jaw. Jarlaxle then found his lips meeting hers, tasting the blood that flowed from them…before a chill ran through his body, breaking his levitation.

Drizzt and Entreri stared in disturbed awe at this sight, then saw Jarlaxle plummet. Drizzt threw his stick into the water as he leapt over the railing and onto the deck of the mangled ship. His boot slipped on a thick puddle of blood before he hastily regained his footing and positioned himself under Jarlaxle's falling form.

Jarlaxle's mind snapped back into reality. On reflex, he called on the power of the House Baenre insignia in his neck purse as floated in the air a few feet away from the plank, on which his feet lightly planted in front of Drizzt. He looked over and saw Entreri leap over the rail right behind Drizzt, glaring at him in both horror and incredulity.

The looks on both their faces were of deep vexation, confusion, fear, all of them at once. Jarlaxle tried to come up with a response, though his throat was tight. Entreri gave one more pointed glare at him before walking past, analyzing the damage and keeping on his constant guard.

"Any speculation on who we can blame for this?" the assassin asked, scanning the field of corpses in front of him.

He counted about thirty in total, most wearing the beaten, gold and brown tabards of commissioned sailors. Entreri paced the deck, seeing no movement and no signs of anything but cold death. All wounds on the bodies were clean, as if done by a blade. Each cut was methodically placed; every pulled organ was left in a neat pile beside the body. This was no mere mass slaughter.

The assassin felt the creaks of footsteps behind him, glancing back to see Drizzt similarly examining the carnage while Jarlaxle stayed a few steps away and to the side. Entreri's path at last came to the dragon, a creature he had no good experiences with in his life. The creature was obviously young. Its ten-foot-long body was lying on its side; frontal cavity cut open lengthwise as a river of dried blood covered the planks. Much of its muscle was exposed as much gold skin had been peeled off.

Entreri turned to the side, hands on his weapons, though he knew the wyrm was cold dead. He looked inside the ripped open cavity and saw the body of a young man. His body was intact, his flowing black hair and light, plate armor marred only by blood, though his eyes were grotesquely rolled back as his mouth gaped open as wide as the gash in his throat.

Entrsri crouched down and grimaced, immediately recognizing the painting of a grand gauntlet emblazoned on his red tabard.

"Do you know this one, Jarlaxle?" he called back.

Jarlaxle looked down and shuddered.

"Seron Wenthias," he said.

"Two champions dead," Drizzt said with a hard sigh, getting the creeping urge to leave there immediately lest he join them.

"All dead," a voice whimpered from behind them.

Drizzt and Entreri swung around with blades in hand, while Jarlaxle stood quietly. Coming from the side of the hold was a man clad in plate armor, the gauntlet of Torm in the form of a silver pendant around his neck. His long, white hair was dyed red with the blood that had splattered over his body. He hobbled over to them, a broken greatsword clutched tightly in his broken hand.

"All dead," he said, his voice breathy and barely a whimper. "They are all dead."

Drizzt and Jarlaxle walked forward, the old man not even noticing the two dark elves in front of him.

"Care to explain what happened here, father?" Drizzt asked, pointing WraithKiss at the carnage around them.

The man stopped, staring at the drow in confusion. Jarlaxle stepped beside him as Drizzt stepped closer.

"The forces of evil," the man said, "have won the day."

The priest then collapsed as a river of blood gushed from his open throat. Entreri leapt up and ran over as Drizzt glared at Jarlaxle. Jarlaxle held up his bloody dagger and looked down at the corpse, only then realizing he had slit the man's throat…for whatever reason.

He then threw the dagger into the wood, staring at it, then at the body. He disliked such senseless killing, though he had partaken of it purely on instinct.

Drizzt and Entreri stood still for a second, all trying to digest everything that was happening. Drizzt then growled and spun around, walking past the carnage and back to the bow of the ship. He leapt over the railing and both feet landed perfectly on deck. He sighed hard and looked around…to catch a glimpse of the large, blob-shaped shadows floating away.

Drizzt rolled his eyes and looked around the deck, only to see Matty standing outside the main hold with an irritated look. A trail of blood came out of the door. The captain took a step forward, though it was obviously labored. The drow was about to ask, but Entreri answered his question a second later.

"Beholders!" he shouted.

Drizzt swung around as the three passing eye tyrants came clearly into view. He readied his swords and faced the hideous creatures, which floated in the air around the ship…and remained still as if staring at all of them.

A fourth beholder then floated down in front of Drizzt, who leapt into a battle stance, though suddenly caught the annoyed look on the thing's…face? The beholder's central eye then fell on the ship beside them, then back on Drizzt.

"What madness have you wrought here, dark elf?" the beholder asked in a chilling tone.

"What madness have you brought here, eye tyrant?" Drizzt asked.

The beholder narrowed its eye, exposing its toothy maw in a sneer.

"We come here on business," it said tiredly. "Though our orders are to kill you all if you interfere."

"State your business and be gone," Drizzt replied.

"The first parts of our business are complete," the beholder said, motioning its body and eyestalks towards the hold. "Sir Wenthias has his wizard back with his son's horn coming along with him."

Drizzt looked at Entreri, who by now was almost green. He then looked at Jarlaxle and swore he saw him scratching the long gashes on his arm hard enough to set them bleeding again. Drizzt put thee thought out of his head as he turned his attention back to the beholder.

"The second part of our business is to bring a message from the blackguard," the beholder continued. "He wishes to meet with you as soon. The time and the place shall be determined.

With that word, the beholders glanced at each other. With a nod from the lead, they all floated off into the night, soon coming out of view. Drizzt sighed hard and looked at Matty, who flexed his muscles in relief; the beholder's slowing spell now worn off.

Drizzt walked up to the side of the hold and kicked it, though his energy was spent. He walked in with Entreri following close behind, the threat of sleep weighing his every movement as well as the heaviness of…everything. He took one look back at Jarlaxle, who returned his defeated glare. The assassin then followed Drizzt into the hold, stopping for a second and savoring the calming darkness of the stairwell and watching his companion disappear into the other room.

The assassin lingered, his head still throbbing as the darkness enveloped him. He concentrated for a second, willing the darkness to close in more around him. On command, no light shone through the stairwell at all. Entreri was left alone with his shadows, thinking nothing about the power that brought them there. It was a calming, familiar feeling.

Shadows had served him his entire life, it was a place in which he was always comfortable, where he could hide and carry out his business. It was a realization that only dawned on him now, and put a sneering smile on his face.

"If you've got something to tell me, oh great Masked One," he whispered, "you'd better do so and quit gloating."

He closed his eyes for one second then opened them. The stairway was clear save for the dim lamp Drizzt must have left on. Entreri sighed and walked down the stairs.


	14. Inner Demons

**The Lesser Evil: Hooligan's Holiday**

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of R.A. Salvatore/Wizards of the Coast ©. I don't own them; I'm just examining all their possibilities.

Author's Note: OK, yes I know it's been too long since I last updated, though I hope m faithful readers will understand that a huge plot twist and a rather insane work schedule can mean a late update.

Warning: The last scene of this chapter contains a violent act that is meant to illustrate character psychology and display the full horror of the appalling act it is. It is meant to be neither gratuitous nor misogynistic.

**Chapter 14: Inner Demons**

The heavy, Calimport sun rose in the high, arched windows of the guild's study. Entreri stood for a second and looked out at every spire and dome of the old city; his city.

With a proud smirk in spite of himself, he twirled around and walked through the room, entering the long, simply decorated hallway of beige desert stone. The spring days were becoming warmer, yet he still felt comfortable in his favorite black cape made from a light, breathable material that also acted as a form of armor. He idly looked down at the red and black embroidery on his sleeveless, white tunic, one of the few items of personal vanity he had allowed himself in the past year; the change in his situation encouraging a slight change in wardrobe. Maybe Jarlaxle had rubbed off on him more than he cared to admit, he thought with a small smirk.

It was business as usual in the simple hall of the guild. A few minor thieves would cower from him with venomous sneers, which he would greet back with a polite smile. A passing minor mage/master con artist made no eye contact with him at all, found a different side of the maroon carpet to walk on. Entreri knew it was never entirely safe to travel so openly among this group, yet hiding in his quarters was a coward's retreat.

Entreri turned the corner, dodging the small palm tree in a terra cotta pot as he and peered through the open door of another small study. Drizzt was sitting at his desk, slender feet planted on the fine wood as he gave some kind of a briefing to the three drow rogues from Mir he kept under his watch. Drizzt looked idly over and gave Entreri a bored look in greeting.

"So our grand guildmaster decides to grace us with his presence," the drow said, his face turning into a small smile.

"Try to look honored by that, Do'Urden," he replied, looking further into the room and seeing Mazn'reysla reclining on the plush, red couch in his casual, patchwork robes with his face buried in a tome. "You have what I asked for?"

Drizzt reached from under the desk and produced a small, black bag before tossing it to the guildmaster. Entreri caught the bag and felt the weight of the gems he had been waiting for.

"Impressive," he said in a sarcastic tone. "Though you should have given this to me earlier, for it will take me a whole afternoon to wipe the blood off these precious, precious stones."

"Hey, I collect, you collect," Drizzt said. "You know better than to question my methods."

Entreri jiggled the bag in his hand, testing the weight, before nodding to the group and leaving. His eyes trailed back to the various tapestries and wall baubles his lieutenant had collected over the years, though they always fell on one, painful artifact: the great plumed hat resting atop two crossed sabers. He didn't know why he always looked at this eyesore, and he did not care to think on why it made his heart hollow for a second afterwards.

Entreri walked from the doorway, only to see the patchwork robes and blond hair of Mazn'reysla coming down the…

He paused, allowing the cleric to pass by into the study without a word or even a glance, just his usual smile. A small cry of warning sounded in the assassin's mind as he peeked back into the study. Mazn'reysla was leaning on the desk, delicately running a finger over Drizzt's hand before returning his attention to the papers on the desk.

The Mazn'reysla on the couch was now in his usual clerical vestments, though now an intense chill was surging through Entreri's being. He shuddered, looking up and seeing the blond hair of the cleric on the couch fading to a shade of bright green. The drow then lowered his tome, revealing his masked, smiling face.

Entreri's body became a mass of shudders as he bolted to a sit, taking a few breaths fully noticing the tacky tapestry of a green dragon on the wall of his inn. A few more breaths later, he began to feel the scratch of the wool blanket against his bare torso and the feel of the hard ropes on the poor-excuse-for-a-bed in the Golden Goose Inn in Saerloon.

He looked out the tiny window and saw the sky was now fully dark. When he first entered the room it was on the early end of dusk. The long, stressful boat trip had definitely sapped much of his energy; a state he had to recognize was not entirely his fault.

Entreri crashed back down on the cot, hearing the familiar sounds of two voices…one female…one male, Do'Urden to be exact, twisted into various moans and sighs. Apparently his companion had found something to entertain himself. Maybe Jarlaxle had done so too…he could only hope.

The assassin closed his eyes and managed to fall a little more into a shallow sleep. He then jumped up once again at the sound of a wrap at his door. Entreri looked out the window to see the moon a little higher in the sky than the last time he woke. He sat for a second, waiting for the idiot outside to go away. Another gentle, yet pointed wrap came a second later. He lifted himself to his feet and appeared beside the door, Charon's Claw in hand as he slowly opened it and clearly saw his new visitor.

Entreri relaxed his stance a little, noticing Do'Urden's slightly tousled hair, the hastily tied strings on the collar of his black tunic, and the gleam of sweat across his ebony forehead. The drow was casually leaning in the doorway, regarding his human companion with a cool stare.

"If you are looking for someone else to entertain you," the assassin said patiently, "I believe you have the wrong room."

"No, my pleasure is done for now," Drizzt replied. "I'm focused on business now. Someone wishes an audience with both of us."

"At least you're telling me this now," Entreri replied, his voice a little more annoyed. "Or Mazn'reysla has a very feminine voice."

Drizzt gave a semi-sheepish chuckle.

"I just learned my information," the drow replied, "regardless, I consider this matter important."

"Then send the cleric my regards and tell him your human pet needs actual sleep," Entreri replied, shutting the door in Drizzt's face.

Drizzt was hardly surprised. He gave a mocking wave to the closed door before walking down the hallway, knowing full well there was no way the human would follow him to Mazn'reysla's meeting spot.

Drizzt himself was still registering the information passed to him by the summoning gem. He was in the middle of entertaining a mid-class lady when he heard the voice. The whore didn't seem to care, briefly asking where the other voice was coming from before forgetting her question in a wave of moans. Being the charming individual he was, Drizzt responded to the summons, just as his visit with the lady reached its climax. He thought he heard Mazn'reysla give a snicker in reply.

The cleric mentioned something briefly about meeting him "the tower by the depths of despair." It was Mazn'reysla's usual dramatics, though they always had some purpose. He was sure the answer to this riddle lay within the city and he cared not to announce his whereabouts to every party in the room.

He continued down the hallway with a slight bounce in his step; the pressing tension that had invaded every muscle for the past few days melted away after tonight's…exercise. Drizzt walked down the stairs and into the main bar, taking a second to refocus by observing the various thugs and schemers of various races that had gathered in the small, crowded room.

His main attention focused on the dark elf in the corner; large, plumed hat sitting on the table as the buxom, raven-haired lady sitting in his lap rubbed her hand over his freshly shaved head. Jarlaxle took another sip of deep red wine while continuing on with whatever witty conversation he had engaged her in. The mercenary's exposed red eye met Drizzt for a second and gave an inconspicuous wink. Drizzt had to stop and savor the sight of a black hand gently rubbing up her corset and briefly squeezing one breast before caressing her neck. It was a sign that he was indeed recovering.

It was all just like old times.

Drizzt took his eyes off his companion for a second, purposely stalling his walk for a reason he could figure, yet not prove. After a minute, he gave a nod to Jarlaxle, who was too busy kissing the barmaid to even notice. The younger drow casually floated through the crowd, receiving a few passing glares from the various humans, halflings, and even orcs who had gathered in this space in their various methods of garb.

He passed to the door and walked outside; the fragrance of rot, cheap liquor, cheaper pipeweed, and the occasional whiff of blood meeting his fine nose. He walked down the street, savoring the hunched beggars on each block, the hunched thieves in each alley, and the occasional finely dressed dandy en route to tonight's killing. He had little time to truly explore Saerloon when the boat first landed. The sun had just set and he was in dire need of an actual Reverie after getting barely any rest on the ship. Now he was fully rested, had taken some evening refreshment, and was now in the perfect mood to explore the massive, cozy den of thieves that was Saerloon.

A few passing traders gave him respective glares, to which Drizzt matched with an unnerving smile. He merely passed this small group and the haggard alewives who clutched some kind pendants around their necks and whispered what were probably a few prayers at him passing by.

Twenty years ago in Icewind Dale, he would have pulled his cowl lower over his face and tried to bury himself and play the perfect goodly martyr. Now he wore his heritage out in the open, savoring the looks of fear and curiosity. He eventually passed by a passing drow in wizard's robes, who flashed him a sneer while continuing his hushed discussion with the bald, tattooed female in red robes.

Drizzt kicked aside a hand that reached out for his boot while continuing on, trying to find the possible location Maz hinted at while feeling like just another ruffian in a city where ruffians ruled. He did see the occasional uniformed soldier who must have been a member of the city guard, yet every one he saw was either visibly drunk, having their own shadowy conversation with another thug, or merely standing on a faux patrol and not noticing the human thug who suddenly dropped dead beside him in a pool of blood.

He continued down the street, keeping ever alert for anything coming too close too him or looking to spring…or standing in an alley and making his presence known though his own hiding. Drizzt gave a casual glance to the unmistakable figure, concealing himself in the shadows enough to make his presence not too obvious, yet still revealing a part of his face.

Of course Entreri could not merely accompany him; instead he had to play the role of the shadow like he always did. Drizzt returned his gaze to the street before gradually turning it to the alley once more. The shadow was gone and Drizzt smirked. Entreri obviously wanted to let him know he was being followed. The drow couldn't blame him for his paranoia, though his evil machismo was becoming a little boring.

His musings were suddenly interrupted by the tinkly chimes of a spirited dance that seemed out of place in such a sullen atmosphere. Drizzt slowed his pace yet continued towards the music, hoping Moril hadn't gained minstrels as part of his traveling circus of death.

Drizzt walked down another street toward the music, blending with the crowd though occasionally noticing the same dark figure in the occasional alleyway. He then turned a corner and found himself face-first with the source.

Gathered in the middle of the dirt street was a troupe of colorfully dressed beings, three women and one man in silken, roomy garb. A gnome was sitting on the ground and strumming a lute while a…half orc was gracefully tapping on a small drum. The two human females were spinning around in the circle, as an elven female twirled around the slightly pudgy human male with a wavy, page boy haircut and a pointed goatee.

Drizzt blended in with the crowd that gathered and passed by this little performance. The drow pondered the styling of the lute and the clothing of the dancers, finding the stylings familiar; a typical desert anthem and method of bardic dress in Calimshan. He wondered if Entreri was either enjoying the show or containing his annoyance.

The four dancers then collected in a line and started parading through the crowd. A few spectators actually looked amused, while others moved out of the way with disgusted looks. Drizzt continued watching, keeping half an eye on his surroundings while letting himself be entertained. The females spun past him first, each one giving him their own surprised glances as they gyrated their hips and hopped around the crowd.

The male was next, not even looking at Drizzt, but blowing kisses to members of the audience while filing past the dark elf. Then the sword on his back emanated a strong warmth that pulsed through his very being. The man then looked to shiver as he looked squarely at Drizzt, who sneered. The heavy Calishite returned the glare, though continued dancing past him as the smirk remained on his ebony face.

Vasha Milian and Seron Wenthias were both dead. This one was clearly not the Blackguard Wenthias and he gave Fielder no credit for an intelligent disguise, or any dancing talent. Then there was the factor of him being Calishite…

Drizzt took an inconspicuous glance in the direction where Entreri had been last, only to see nothing but an empty space. Maybe he was waiting for his moment to spring on Jordani Pilazi…and Drizzt would watch on in glee as his companion had his rightful revenge.

Instead Tymora's champion casually turned away and continued his dance around the crowd. Drizzt gave him a sneering grin and judging by Jordani's slight glance back, he knew it had been noticed. Drizzt gave one last look at the many spectators and all the pickpockets and cutpurses taking advantage of them. Tymora was indeed a goddess of commerce.

He kept half an eye to the crowd, meeting the gaze of every child and halfling who looked to have at least somewhat of an intention of putting a little hand near his belt. All knew who they were, judging by their sudden scared expressions. He managed to weave his way through the crowd, not feeling any tugs at his belt or swords, and keeping his gaze forward, though ever-alert.

Drizzt made his way back to the side of the street, keeping close to the wall and trying to find this "temple by the depths of despair" the cleric was babbling about, though he had somewhat of an idea. "Temple" and "despair" could have very well been a reference to the temple of the Lady of Despair; the one deity who had also been besmirched by Moril, though was keeping typically quiet.

A small tug on his cape followed by a small gasp broke him from his contemplation, and he was far from amused. Drizzt spun around in a flash and had the small creature by the neck, shoving him against the wall…and going numb.

His grip remained strong, but knees threatened to buckle as he stared into the pleading brown eyes now glossed with tears. The halfling's mouth hung open with the same look of stunned denial that Drizzt knew he wore now. A thousand thoughts bounced inside his brain at once and produced a gut-wrenching wave of denial, despair, sadness, and crimson rage. He knew he should kill the creature now and have this mockery to everything he was, everything he had accomplished, and everything he was supposed to have destroyed a year ago. Instead he stood still, his shaking hand the only motion breaking his frozen shock.

The halfling let out a few whimpers, his lips trembling as they desperately tried to form words. At last his little mouth stuttered out one word.

"Drizzt," he said in a desperate burst of air.

Drizzt let out a few breaths, now having to face himself once again.

"Well met, Regis," he managed to gasp, not even believing the name as it passed from his lips.

There was no way it could be him. A disguise maybe, Mazn'reysla finding something else to free his soul or maybe even Moril trying to break his mind like he broke Jarlaxle's. Unconsciously, Drizzt swatted the side of his face, trying to loosen any illusionary mask he may have worn. Instead Regis flinched, his whimpers becoming louder as he continued to stare at the drow.

"But…but…Cormanthor," the plump halfling sputtered. "Your blade…the blood down the tree."

Drizzt gave a long sigh. Even if this was an illusion, he would have to play along. He grabbed the collar of his tunic, pulling a section down to reveal his collarbone and tracing a finger over the deep scar in front and back that still remained after Vhaeraun pinned him to that tree with his own scimitar.

"I escaped," he said.

"B-b-but, but…the drow, the prince," Regis burst out, sending a sickening chill through the drow's being.

"All of them saved my life," he replied, "healed my wounds, made me think a little differently about some of my kin."

Regis nodded his head in response, his brown curls bobbing as he continued to marvel at Drizzt. A tiny, trembling hand reached out and gently traced the deep, angry scar embedded in the ebony flesh along his jaw as his eyes poured over.

"Oh Drizzt," he burst out, throwing his little arms around the drow's body, bringing a flinch in response though he didn't care. He just pulled his lost friend closer and buried his face in his shoulder and giving off muted wails that repeatedly formed Drizzt's name.

The numbness in Drizzt's body morphed into a heated rage.

This could not be happening, he thought, there is no way my plans could be this ruined. There is no way everything I have buried could rise from its grave and…

He took a breath, allowing himself to receive the embrace while finding his hand clutched on Regis' small mace though not removing it entirely. A tiny part of him actually felt some relief at the discovery, his ancient deception in the open with any ways to profit from this. He would have to introduce this old friend to a few new friends…

A searing burn exploded through his back. Drizzt let out a few gasps as he realized his legs still had strength, yet cursing himself for being this stupid. The drow instantly slammed Regis hard against the wall, hearing a few ribs break as he threw the halfling into adjacent alley and spun around. Jordani Pilazi launched at him again with a long, curved dagger bearing a thick coat of his blood.

The last thing he heard was a scream of "No, Jordani!" as his mind went blank and his swords flew into his hands. Jordani waved his hand with two words of an incantation as his hand fell off with WraithKiss' swipe. A fly of blood and a sickening sting pulsed through his leg. He glanced briefly down to see the glowing silver shuriken embedded deeply in his thigh and leaving off a small trail of smoke as its power seared into his flesh.

A burst of blood flew from Jordani's torso as Icingdeath scraped against bone and…another blade. Regis shrieked as Jordani turned his head to regard the cold, black eyes boring through him as the dagger through his back twisted.

"Revenge is a sloppy whore, junior," Entreri hissed in his ear, pushing him forward and allowing WraithKiss a peck into Jordani's side.

Drizzt pushed him backward as the blade of the dagger and the tip of Charon's Claw burst through both lungs and pushed him on Icingdeath and WraithKiss skewering his kidneys in a side stab.

Drizzt could still hear Regis screaming through his mental fury, which made his stabs even stronger. Icingdeath and WraithKiss connected through Jordani's heart with an upward thrust and Drizzt dodged enough to avoid Charon's Claw bursting through his chest.

Regis was now whimpering as Jordani crumbled, his body supported by the blades as Entreri gave an almost animalistic sneer. Drizzt and Entreri disengaged their respective swords and pushed the bleeding corpse of Tymora's champion into the alley next to them.

Drizzt then fell to his knees, the flood of pain held back by the Hunter now crashing over him. His lifeblood gushed from the deep stabs in his back and leg. A small sense of relief came over him as his pain melted with his flow of warm blood and the hands that suddenly grabbed him as he fell. The fog in his brain was matched by the sudden fog that rose around him as another hand clutched his shoulder and he fell into blackness.

----------

She was absolutely perfect. Jarlaxle remembered her name was Corinne, a beautiful name fitting of her long, golden hair and those full, red lips that caressed the side of his face.

He allowed himself to roll on his back, closing his eyes and savoring every thrust, every touch, every caress of soft flesh.

"You look happy, Jarlaxle," Corinne sighed.

Jarlaxle let out a laugh combined with a small, happy moan as his hands ran over her large, soft breasts. She threw her head back and gave out a long, sickening cackle. Her red eyes piercing through his soul as her long fingernails dug into the flesh of his chest and started peeling off the skin.

He wanted to scream, but she put one hand over his mouth before leaning down and taking a large bite from his cheek, spitting the chunks of his own, bloody flesh in his face before stabbing a fingernail through his eye. Jarlaxle gave a whimpering gasp as the sting fangs connected with his chest, the poison from her snake whip coursing through his veins like acid.

_You can stop this, Jarlaxle, _a calm voice called in his head.

He nodded, pushed the creature off him and clutched the dagger in his hand; allowing himself the warmth of sweet oblivion.

His eyes flew open with a yelp as the reality of his dark room and the comfort of his bed met him once more. Jarlaxle allowed his senses to focus as the dream faded and he came back to his reality. He bolted upright, letting out a scream…and looking down to see the dagger in his blood-soaked hand.

Jarlaxle wanted to fall unconscious, just drop and pretend this nightmare wasn't real. Instead he found himself looking at the blood soaked blue blanket, then down at Corinne's corpse lying in a river of her life essence. Jarlaxle felt numb, a stream of tears flowing from his eyes as he threw down the dagger.

"What have I done?" he whispered. "What game is this?"

"I believe you know the answer to that," a voice called from the side.

He continued looking down at the bloody sheets as the ebony figure in a black cape embroidered with spider webs came in his peripheral vision. He closed his eyes briefly, and then slowly looked up to see the female drow in a tight, spider web corset and silver spider headpiece over her flowing, white hair looked patiently down at him.

The unfamiliar priestess regarded the carnage with her thick, red lips in a sour pout.

Jarlaxle looked back down at the sheets, their bright, red color playing some happiness in his numb brain.

"This is so unlike you, Jarlaxle," the female tsked. "Though I am far from surprised. It's time I got you cleaned up, I guess."

He made no protest as she rubbed a hand over his bald head and felt the jolt from the bed to the velvet cushion in another location.


	15. True Essence

**The Lesser Evil: Hooligan's Holiday**

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of R.A. Salvatore/Wizards of the Coast ©. I don't own them; I'm just examining all their possibilities.

**Chapter 15: True Essence**

The lingering, pervading smell of blood in his nostrils slowly crept away and replaced by what the conscious part of his brain recognized as lace fungus burned to produce sweet incense.

Jarlaxle allowed himself to open his eyes and finally face what terrors might have been in front of him; finally seeing if the horrors his brain produced were the same as those in reality…whatever definition that took now. The dim light crept through his slowly- opening lids to reveal a small room. Purple and black tapestries lined the walls that looked more like firm quilts. He looked down to find himself sitting on a plush, purple rug that had the softness of a fine mattress.

Jarlaxle took a long, deep breath and systematically relaxed his painfully tight muscles, only now realizing that his wrists were bound together beside his back with a tight leather cuff. His still-hazy sight looked idly down to his legs and saw a thick, wide leather band around his exposed ankles firmly tightened with strings like those on a corset.

His focus on his ankles gave him the close view of a pair of high, black leather boots embossed with silver spiderwebs that had strode over by his legs as his stomach churned. He slowly looked up to the tight, drow body encased in a purple velvet corset and surrounded by a black, spidersilk cape.

The figure bent down, her blood red eyes piercing through his as her fair, ebony face gave a look of sad amusement.

"Poor, poor Jarlaxle," she said, gently rubbing her index finger over his bald head. "You have been put through quite a bit, haven't you?"

Jarlaxle gave no response, only letting his heavy, aching head fall down to his chest and see the white, cotton robe in which he was clothed.

"Now, now, poor darling," the priestess cooed, rubbing her hand over his head and massaging his scalp with long fingernails.

He wanted to speak, though the words were lost to him. His tongue also seemed to lack the strength and his mind the means to communicate at all. Jarlaxle simply focused on the elven fingers massaging into his scalp…and stripping off a small section of flesh.

He let out a pained scream that melted into whimpers as he fell to the soft floor in a fetal position. He didn't want to open his eyes because she would be there; the priestess who stripped off his flesh as she raped him…and put on the face of an innocent, human girl…whose eyes turned red…

A small fire rose in his body that grew. He opened his eyes and looked up to see the bitch leaning over a glowing, black bowl floating in mid air; lowering the bloody bit of his flesh into a mass of shadows that were nothing but floating hate in his heart. He saw her face: her withered demonic face and wanted to rip it off.

In a flash of motion, he jumped up and roared…only to feel a terrible, searing burn in his ankles and wrists that slammed him back to the ground with a yelp and an uncontrollable mass of sobs. His adrenaline crashed as the wave of despair came over him.

The priestess' withered face smoothed out to perfect youth as she gave him a sad look.

"What tortures have you been subjected to, friend?" she whispered before finishing her incantation and giving Jarlaxle's flesh to her god.

-------------

The river of blood flowing down his back was the only small amount of warm comfort from the searing agony burning its way through his leg.

Drizzt closed his eyes and let out a scream as the rush of adrenaline began to wear off and the sickening horror of the thing in his thigh made itself known. He felt arms around him, though, comforting arms that provided him some relief from his agony. The small, aggravating sear in his back warmed slightly as the pain melted in that one area, though it was still little comfort.

He managed to open his eyes and look down at the silver shuriken still stuck in his foreleg, a puff of white smoke coming from his searing flesh, which he could feel bubbling.

The arms around him squeezed tighter as he felt a pair of soft lips caressing down his cheek. He managed to look back to see locks of champagne blond hair cascading over his shoulder. Drizzt laid his head back and melted into Mazn'reysla's embrace, wishing for unconsciousness or even death though neither came.

A pale brown hand with a moderate cover of black hair and a torn, black tunic came into his view and reached for the shuriken.

"I wouldn't do that..." Mazn'reysla said, though too late.

Entreri clutched the shuriken and let go with a yelp as the skin on his hand seared, the movement sending another wave of agony through Drizzt's muscles and causing him to let out another scream.

Maz clutched him tighter, giving Drizzt a small measure of comfort, though that could not stop the agony.

It wasn't the sear of the blade that produced his screams; he was a warrior who had developed a high threshold for pain in the course of his life. It wasn't the pain; it was the sickening sensation pulsing through every core of his being. It was the feeling of a hostile force wracking through his flesh, a sensation that went against every fiber of his being as if to turn his own flesh against him.

"Use your gauntlet," Maz said through Drizzt's agony.

Entreri's hand then came into view, this time covered by the red leather gauntlet he used against magical forces. He gently clutched the shuriken, sending a small pulse through Drizzt's leg.

"This will be painful," Maz whispered in his ear, "though it will be over soon."

Drizzt sighed and braced himself.

Maz nodded.

Entreri ripped the shuriken from his leg. Drizzt let out a scream blood spurted from the wound and was quenched by a slender, ebony hand.

Mazn'reysla uttered a prayer to Vhaeraun while clutching Drizzt's leg tightly. His hand glowed with a black light as he continued chanting. An energy pulsed through Drizzt's body; dark, cold...comforting. The alien presence against his flesh melted away as if eaten, obliterated, and banished from his body.

Drizzt let out a groan and allowed himself to collapse into Maz's arms, savoring the end to the torment. His lavender eyes trailed up to Entreri whose lower lip trembled as a look of pure rage slowly crept into his cold, black eyes.

It was only then when he noticed the warmth of the torch a few feet on the wall above him. He was now sitting on a brilliant, purple rug where a manure covered street once was and looked around a stone room grandly adorned with black and purple tapestries of various design yet all bearing metallic black threading.

"Where in the Nine Hells are we," Drizzt groaned as his head started to clear.

"The Temple by the Depths of despair," Maz whispered in his ear. "The house of our friend, Lady Shar; we are safe here."

Drizzt looked back and saw the cleric's masked face bearing a happy smile. Drizzt grabbed him by the back of the neck and kissed him with passion, though it was an action that reminded him that his wounds were far from healed as momentary wave of agony sliced through his back. He fell back and the wave ceased.

"To the Hells with both of you," Entreri growled, kicking Drizzt's injured leg at the right angle to make him wince in pain.

Both drow looked up and saw the human's features now a deep scowl as he suddenly drew his dagger and held it at the throat of an unphased Mazn'reysla.

"If I'm not going to get any answers from your whore, I will have answers from you," he hissed, grabbing the cleric's blond hair by the roots and forcing his head back.

Drizzt managed the strength to fall aside and give Entreri full access to the cleric, who now bore a look of mild irritation. Mazn'reysla did look slightly concerned at the presence of the life-stealing blade held directly under his chin. Drizzt said nothing, only watching with a miniscule amount of concern and a larger amount of aggravation. The assassin was right, after all; Mazn'reysla had much to explain.

He stared at the priest in his own building anger at all the sudden pieces of information that had been hoisted on him at the worst possible moments; the sword, the championship of his god...the sudden presence of Regis.

It was a realization that slammed him across the head; Regis knew he was alive, Regis saw him perfectly healthy after receiving his shattered blade...Regis actually saw him and he actually saw Regis. He crashed on his back, feeling the lingering stab of pain from the Jordani Pilazi's knife in his back; only now realizing that the wound should have killed him.

He kept his gaze on Mazn'reysla as the multitude of thoughts assaulted his brain. In the midst of the mental noise, he stared at the cleric; the only one who could provide any answers at the moment.

The dagger was pressed against his neck, though not hard enough to pierce his skin and extract his life essence. His innocent face, however, was locked into an expression of sad concern mixed with a healthy amount of fear. It was a humble look he had rarely seen from Mazn'reysla, though he had seen it enough to recognize when the calm smugness had been wiped away by his tiny amount of vulnerability. A part of him wanted to kick Entreri, make him leave his lover alone. The larger part of him at the moment was drinking this up. Mazn'reysla was now at the mercy of someone just as part of this insanity as he was…or so it appeared.

The cleric sat silent for a second with an expression almost awaited a slice from that horrible blade while contemplating what to say next. There was little of his usual confidence in his face; he almost looked...apologetic. Entreri looked to see...and savor...all of this, though he held back his blade despite the look of maddening rage he held back in his scowl.

"What would you have me say," the cleric said calmly.

Entreri looked almost taken aback by the question, as if he couldn't manage an answer. Drizzt completely understood what his human companion may have been feeling at the time, though he did not keep the arrogance that he would actually know. Even he didn't want to know what was going on inside his head at the moment.

"You knew where to find us," the assassin said calmly. "While I can only assume I can credit my companion for that, I have a bizarre feeling that you have a little more knowledge of our course than I find comforting."

"What would you have me do about that?" Maz replied, his voice slightly strained by both his unease and the nasty blade right below his Adam's apple.

"I'm going to ask a few questions and I expect a few answers," Entreri sneered down at Maz before looking up at Drizzt, "from both of you."

Drizzt was hardly surprised at this turn of events, noticing how the human's grasp on the cleric's hair became tighter as he eyed both drow equally with the same anticipating sneer.

"Honesty, old friend," Entreri slowly whispered in Drizzt's direction, placing the blade closer to Mazn'reysla's throat.

"If you want to place any blame on the one who brought you on this fucking journey in the first place, he would be back at the inn," Drizzt replied in a calm, yet weak tone.

He saw Maz's straight grimace take a curve of a smirk.

"If you want to place any blame on the one who got our god involved in this whole mess for the sake of his own amusement, you already have him," Drizzt said, glaring at Maz.

Entreri smirked, knowing the look of a loyal lover who stopped hiding the actions of his partner and handed him to the wolves. Another connection was even more obvious; Drizzt may have been the champion, but he was far from a medium for the gods. The cleric however...

The assassin pressed the edge of the blade into Mazn'reysla's flesh just enough feel a jolt of his life essence going through the blade. The cleric let out a scream more akin to a tortured child than a wounded man. It was a sound that pierced him to his core, causing him to instinctively pull back the blade. He looked down, expecting to see a smug grin, but instead saw a tear run down his cheek as he gasped for enough air to calm himself. An attempt at a smug grin, however, soon followed.

"You have answers," Entreri hissed directly in his pointed ear. "We both want them."

Maz continued gasping for breath for another second, his gasps becoming a sigh, then a laugh, then a series of breathy cackles that chilled his companions. Entreri resisted the urge to cut his throat out right there, though a sweeping chill emanating from the cleric's form into his own made hand feel like stone.

Drizzt saw the sudden wince from the human as well as Mazn'reysla's sudden, calm expression…he same one he got when communicating with…

In the middle of his hazy mind, Drizzt made a sudden realization; his human companion had the same reaction when the devils attacked the ship. Now he gave that same almost panicked wince just as the cleric was having a close communion with his deity. Maybe Entreri could sense the emanations of extra-planar beings, perhaps only those of an evil nature but he could sense them nonetheless. The logical side of Drizzt's mind denied it; it was a too convenient, too far-fetched idea. Regardless, it was one he would have to explore.

Mazn'reysla now bore a look of scared pain, though he tried to straighten himself once more.

"It is not wise to kill the messenger," he gasped between a sob. "For that is my only role."

Drizzt managed to sit up and glared at him.

"Did you take a peek inside the scroll you were to deliver?" Drizzt asked.

Mazn'reysla slowly shook his head.

"I was only given words," the priest replied, "words to pass directly along and that was it."

Entreri gave him a disbelieving look, though Drizzt held up a hand in peace.

"He tells the truth," Drizzt said to his human companion, before fixing his glare back on his lover. "Though I can guarantee he has not given us the entire message."

A look of defeat clouded Mazn'reysla's bright red eyes as he nodded.

"That was my task for tonight," he said. "Vhaeraun has shown me much, though I had to find the rest of my answers, though I know there is more that I have yet to be shown."

Drizzt and Entreri gave each other an unconscious glance.

"I for one am starting to tire of riddles," Drizzt groaned.

Entreri gave a small nod.

"I say we go to the source," Drizzt continued, a pointed glare boring into Mazn'reysla.

Both the cleric and the assassin glared back at Drizzt, though Mazn'reysla's glare shifted to the floor.

"What in the Nine Flaming Hells do you mean by that?" Entreri said in a calm, yet icy voice as his upper lip trembled in a mix of anger and fear.

Another small, yet noticeable chill went through his captive that pulsed through his own being. He gave an involuntary gasp, looking at the cleric and seeing a smile spread over his face.

"You dare suggest going that far?" Maz replied.

Entreri resisted another urge to slice his throat, though felt his hand stayed by more than his personal discipline…fear.

Drizzt continued glaring at the priest, who read the look perfectly before looking up at the human.

"Even if I did call I doubt he would be willing to tell you anything," Maz said.

"You don't stop you're babbling…" Entreri hissed, pulling him closer before a surge of cold shook his senses for a second before he quickly regained them.

He looked at the drow under his blade and saw his mouth slightly open in almost helplessness…before seeing the shadow of his tongue move slightly in a pattern too ordered to be innocuous. The force of air increased through his windpipe as the sweeping cold increased.

Entreri mentally cursed himself for not noticing the obvious; the cleric was chanting though using the same mouth technique ventriloquists used to speak for their respective puppets.

As he realized what was happening, the cleric's black, cloth mask became the stuff of shadows. He made the motion to cut his throat at last, though his hand was frozen by the growing icy chill.

He had one more second of ordered thought before a force slammed through his torso and threw him on the stone floor with a force he was convinced would crush his bones. Entreri's vision became a thick, sickening mass of shadows. He gasped for air, though his lungs would take none of it in.

He lay on the floor in a panic, unable to move, breathe, or see anything…save for the pair of glowing eyes boring through him framed by a mass of wild, golden hair.

It was Mazn'reysla, or at least it bore his facial features, though Mazn'reysla wasn't there at all. Someone else was.

Drizzt attempted to sit up further, the sickening ache through his back intensifying though he forgot it as he stared in awe at Mazn'reysla.

Maz's body glowed with a black, inky light as if from the shadows surrounding him. His face bore a smug smile and Drizzt knew that he was seeing only the cleric's body while his god occupied the rest.

The torch on the wall was snuffed out with the intense wave of shadows. The only light in the room now was the Masked Lord's glowing golden hair and the black light that beamed through his skin.

Vhaeraun gave him a grin through Mazn'reysla's innocent, yet wicked features before turning to the prone assassin. He jumped to a crouch, looking into the human's face and leaning in so close his nose was barely an inch from that of the gasping Entreri.

Entreri managed a sneer and a venomous glare, though the tightness in his body only increased with the further approach of the being; the mortal body exuding the pure power of the terrible being that haunted his dreams…the being that saved his life from the devils.

Vhaeraun stroked the human's nose gently with his index finger.

"You have his nose, you know," he whispered before letting out a chilling laugh.

Entreri continued gasping, feeling his diaphragm slowly relax and allow his ribcage to expand normally; making it clear the force had knocked the wind out of him and nothing more. Gradually he took in more air and a second later he let off a series of rapid gasps as more air came through his frantic lungs.

"Now don't we feel better now?" Vhaeraun asked mockingly, stroking his cheek before backhanding him.

The side of the human's face felt on fire for a second as the uninjured side savored the softness of the rug. He craned his muscles and forced himself to look up Mazn'reysla closing his eyes and giving a harsh sigh as if trying to control himself. It was a first for Entreri; he was used to seeing mortals committing violence against their will while under possession. This time it was almost as if the parasite was restraining its host.

"I hope that has gotten all the violence out of your system, at least against my high priest," the avatar said calmly though through gritted teeth, a gleam of vindication in Mazn'reysla's red eyes. "Though I doubt that."

Entreri's frenzied mind constantly screamed: _It's just the cleric, it's just the cleric, it's just the fucking cleric; you need to think that, for fuck's sake remember only that!_

The being's smile widened as he gave Entreri a small kick before turning his full attention to Drizzt as he gave a muted cackle.

Drizzt smiled, knowing that Mazn'reysla's soul was likely taking a peaceful nap while his spirit father talked through him. He bowed his head in honor, though lacked the strength to rise before him.

"Drizzt Do'Urden," Vhaeraun sighed in a happy, yet sinister tone as he walked forward. "My son, my servant, my champion."

Drizzt sneered, straining his aching back to draw the shortsword and hold it before Vhaeraun, who nodded in smug recognition.

"Thank you for the declaration" Drizzt said sarcastically, savoring the dangerous territory he was wading into. "It was such an honor I barely even knew it was given to me."

Vhaeraun gave another sickening cackle.

"No, you are correct," he sighed in a tone of smug humility mingled with a snicker, "mark this occasion, friends, for I am about to do something very uncharacteristic."

Vhaeraun bowed his head and gave a dramatic genuflection, his wild hair touching the ground for a second before he rose. Drizzt grimaced, though in some odd way being seemed sincere in his own, warped way.

"Did you know what that was, Drizzt?" he asked. "That was me apologizing. Will you ever see me do that again? Not likely in this millennium, though I feel given the circumstances maybe, perhaps I did owe you a better explanation than I gave. Once again, I am doing something uncharacteristic and making myself…humble. Don't let it inflate your ego too much."

Drizzt smirked, lowering the sword.

"Apology accepted," he said in the same dripping tone. "Though will it be truly remedied by some actual explanations?"

"You ask much of me, don't you child?" Vhaeraun said with a laugh. "Though I am more served by your questions that you could ever be yourself, remember that always."

Drizzt nodded in deference, expecting as much.

"Has this little mission anything to do with Moril?" he asked.

Vhaeraun crouched down to almost a perch, a slender finger tapping his chin as his green eyes circled the room in a feign of pondering.

"Moril…Moril…," he said thoughtfully as if thinking hard on the matter. "Ah, as in _Mors_ or _Mori_; a phrase in many arcane tongues signifying death. Though you also know that in the tongue of our cousins, _Mori _means black."

Drizzt was about to roll his eyes in frustration, though stopped and raised an eyebrow; sometimes his god's sarcasm had legitimate meaning. Maybe this was a hint.

"Though I assume you refer to the so-called Clown Cultist," the being continued, giving a profound eyeroll as he stood up. "The individual who twists the minds of common people into his service, inserts an alchemical pouch directly into their flesh as tattoos, dresses them in scary black clown suits, and choreographs a grand, tumbling extravaganza," he then lifted up into a triple back-flip and landed on the floor with a grand flourish, "the movement setting the powder into a flaming ball of death on top of sacred temples."

Drizzt gave a modest clap, looking over at Entreri, who was slowly pulling himself up with a look of defeated disgust. Vhaeraun bowed gracefully.

"Of course I am well aware of this idiot and all his little tricks, toys, and propaganda" the avatar continued, "though I couldn't give a bloated yugoloth's warty ass about any of that."

He looked at Drizzt and seemed to savor the profound look of confusion on his face with a tiny smirk.

"Surprised are we?" Vhaeraun asked. "I expected as much."

Drizzt leaned back further and pondered the revelation…coming to an understanding.

"His name and his symbolism are meaningless," the ranger said.

Vhaeraun raised his eyebrows with fully utilizing Mazn'reysla's usual smile.

"You want the creature or creatures who hide under his mask," Drizzt continued.

Vhaeraun snickered, walking over to Drizzt and giving him a light pat on the head.

"In the midst of this little tornado you call a brain, something finally fell into place," Vhaeraun said.

"That still tells us nothing," Entreri weakly growled.

"I hate to say this, but the human is correct," Vhaeraun said, giving a tiny bow to the prone assassin with that same, vindictive smirk that Drizzt wasn't sure belonged to the god or the priest. "Until now, no one, no god, has known who the one who wears the clown face truly is…though I have certainly had my ideas."

Judging by the god's growl, Drizzt surmised that they had finally reached the meat of the mystery. Vhaeraun's snarl suddenly morphed into a wide grin of pure, snickering evil.

"That was until now," the being said.

He held out his palm with a flourish as a mass of shadow swept over, fading to reveal a flat piece of bloody, black flesh in his hand. Drizzt cocked an eyebrow in curiosity as Entreri also bore a mildly intrigued, if not concerned look.

"The flesh is a powerful substance," the being said, gently patting the hunk of skin as if it was a beloved pet. "It is the most potent retainer of energy, though just one small bit can reveal so much about its former owner…before damning it. If you have a single table full of the skin samples, teeth…pulled hair…" Vhaeraun looked down at Entreri with a sneer before looking back at Drizzt, "…of twenty creatures you could summon a small party into one place, or bestow some bloody curse onto twenty different creatures scattered all over Toril. Sympathetic magic; a powerful tool, though I'm sure you are familiar enough with this, Drizzt; considering my thirty children, your fellows, whose muscles suddenly failed before they fell under Eilistraee's blades after Asil Qir'Treslin's little necromantic rituals in the name of goodness."

Drizzt shuddered, remembering the hell the Eilistraeen bitch put his soldiers through before he finally removed her head.

"The flesh," Vhaeraun continued, "can even hold the spirit trail of the one who possessed it, if the possessor was sloppy."

Drizzt's jaw dropped slightly as a slightly pained expression came over Entreri's face.

Vhaeraun waved a hand at a blank side of the stone wall, causing the stones to glow with a blackish, purple light that faded into the clear image of a small room with every wall and inch of floor and ceiling covered with embroidered, purple padding. Sitting against the wall clad only in a long, white robe, ankles and wrists bound by leather straps, was a haggard, trembling Jarlaxle.

Drizzt caught a slight gasp in his throat as Entreri shivered with a disgusted look. Jarlaxle's arms braced his knees, eyes closed as he let out long, deep breaths that looked to be an attempt to stop his violent shaking. A small patch of his bare scalp a red color, looking almost like an indentation…the same size and shape as the piece of flesh Vhaeraun held in Mazn'reysla's hand.

As the two focused on Jarlaxle, another figure entered the picture looking right at the wall; a lithe female drow in a spider-web corset and a cape also emblazoned with spiderwebs. Entreri gave a low growl, though Drizzt held his own reaction upon seeing the black, cloth half-mask over her face.

"Be at peace, Artemis," Drizzt whispered, "she's on our side."

"Indeed," Vhaeraun said, walking closer to the wall.

The priestess went to one knee.

"I am honored by your presence, my Masked Lord," she said before rising.

"Really, Ilzir, you should be careful who you wear that garb around," Vhaeraun said in mock scolding. "It could give some people the wrong impression.

A playful smirk came over Ilzir's face, as she bowed her head in supplication. Vhaeraun snickered.

"Drizzt Do'Urden, Artemis Entreri," Vhaeraun said, pointing to the drow and the human before pointing at the priestess, "Ilzir Mourbasin, Traitor Priestess in the humble service of myself and the faux service of the Spider Whore."

Entreri furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. Traitor Priestess? His confusion lasted for a second as he nodded in understanding; a priestess serving Lolth in name to betray her and her fellows to Vhaeraun, it made too much sense.

He gave a brief glance to Drizzt, who also looked profoundly confused as he mouthed her House name thoughtfully.

"Mourbasin," Drizzt said softly, the name almost striking him across the skull.

Mazn'reysla had told him of a Hallia Mourbasin, and here was a Masked Traitoress of the same name. The two had to be related. He looked up and saw Vhaeraun giving him a smug smirk. He turned his attention back to the priestess, who raised her arched, white eyebrows, noticing his recognition of the name.

"So you captured him and brought him here?" Entreri growled, pushing himself off the floor and into a crouch progressing to a slow stand.

"For his own safety," Ilzir said. "May I show his companions where I found him?"

"Please do," Vhaeraun said, "I want to see their reaction."

Ilzir waved a hand with a brief word. The wall returned to a shade of black, though another image appeared; one of a familiar room in an inn. A bed was torn apart and soaked in blood, lying on the floor was the nude corpse of a blonde human woman; torso and chest bearing many gaping gashes as her hardened, yet pretty face was frozen in a look of final surprise. Both Drizzt and Entreri remembered the woman as one of the whores Jarlaxle was wooing in the tavern that night.

"By the Abyss," Entreri snarled under his breath.

Drizzt sighed hard. Jarlaxle had killed many in his long life, though he had little love for vicious slaughter of any kind let alone carry it out. The way he dispatched both the priest of Torm and the tiefling however, were clear indications that Moril's lingering hold of the mercenary was strong. Now this…

The image faded to black shadows again before lighting on Jarlaxle, still sitting and still shaking. Ilzir looked at the group with an air of grim satisfaction.

"Watch your ward closely," Vhaeraun said. "You will hear from me in a short while."

Ilzir bowed. Vhaeraun waved his hand and the image faded to blackness before the shadows dissipated to reveal the wall as it once was. The being stood before the two, his jaw set with a look that suggested slowly building rage.

Entreri looked at the floor, his own temper slowly flaring. Moril had brutally and precisely cut so deep into Jarlaxle's mind, raping his very being, to the point where a proud, powerful dark elf was now a quivering mass bound in a padded cell.

Drizzt looked up at his companion, practically seeing the blood in his eyes as his pale flesh took on a flushed hue, and smiled. Vhaeraun met his lavender eyes and gave a proud sneer before walking closer to the human.

The pre-existing chill in his form intensified. Entreri didn't bother looking up, knowing full well the Vhaeraun-possessed Mazn'reysla was just an inch away; his hot breath pressing against his face.

"Your companion for the past seven years," Vhaeraun whispered in the assassin's ear in almost a sing-song. "Do you remember that battle in Vaasa a while ago? The lich's castle, the gargoyles, the gargoyles descending on him, you screaming out his name as he just disappeared from the ground? Yes there was a magical artifact involved in this little moment of truth, but it was a moment of truth nonetheless. It just boils your blood doesn't it, the thought of Jarlaxle, your companion your…friend, being used as someone's plaything."

Entreri's breaths became harsher, as if every one of them was meant to be a low growl. His black eyes remained in one spot on the floor, yet he could feel Mazn'reysla's smile as the god's stolen gaze bore through him.

"The thought of Jarlaxle being torn apart inside and out to satisfy some madman's vision," Vhaeraun continued.

Entreri managed a harsh chuckle before looking directly in the being's glowing eyes.

"And are you the one to remedy this, Master?" the assassin whispered with a forced smirk.

"Perhaps," Vhaeraun said, "by appointing two powerful, terrible warriors of darkness to eradicate this menace."

"_Vith'os_," Entreri sneered, a small wad of spittle flying in Mazn'reysla's face.

Drizzt started chuckling; a pure, gut-reaction. Vhaeraun's grin widened.

"Now I know why I like you, human," the being beamed. "You are a stubborn ass; you remind me of myself in many ways."

"Except I'm a squishy mortal," Entreri replied, mimicking Vhaeraun's happy tone of voice, "and the most convenient _rivvil_ in your range right now."

Vhaeraun smirked and crossed his arms.

"You underestimate yourself too much, friend," the being said, his cheery voice becoming more sinister. "I'll let you in on a little secret; once upon a time there was a lich named Gaznizt; half-drow, half-deep dragon, all powerful and very nasty. If you want to talk about one who was useful and convenient for me, he was it. Gaznizt is no longer in my service anymore, do you know why? I snared him in a shadow storm five years ago, took a trip to the Meeting Plane, and handed him kicking and screaming to Kelemvor saying I had captured a dangerous and foul undead who deserved destruction. Whether he saw through my motives or not was irrelevant, the new God of Death owed me a rather sizable boon I could have cashed in for any purpose I wanted; more bodies to create more powerful liches, information on those going to the Demonweb Pits, anything. Do you want to know what I did use that boon for?"

Entreri's red flesh took on a greenish tinge though his gaze remained fixed.

"I just happened to see the companion, partner, and friend of my faithful son Drizzt writhing on the Wall of the Faithless and made contact with the god who put him there," Vhaeraun continued. "Needless to say, Kelemvor was not pleased to let you go, that whole matter of 'serving no one but yourself' and all that, though he honored the boon and cut you free to return to your body and be revived by that jolt to your heart at the end of Master Do'Urden's dagger."

Entreri's upper lip trembled as Drizzt's eyes widened. Vhaeraun leaned in closer.

"While I would appreciate a little thanks, all I ask now is your cooperation," he said, a tiny spray of Mazn'reysla's spittle meeting the human's face, causing him to flinch. "Do I require your devotion? Not really, though I would encourage you to make peace with someone of my kind, considering how the grand lady of this temple is tiring of your attitude and Mask considers you a traitor anyway. Throwing a few gold pieces into the coffers of Calimport's Shrine to the Desert Shadows once a tenday before twisting that dagger into the spines of three priests and leaning their prone corpses against the altar was not exactly a move that appeased the Shadowlord. In the eyes of the gods, Artemis Entreri, you are quite frankly fucked; though consider me your last chance. Accept my offer or laugh in my face, it's your choice. I just hope you're happy with your decision when you shit yourself for the final time."

Vhaeraun patted Entreri's face, drawing a violent flinch, before sneering and turning to Drizzt.

"I cannot hand the idiot called Moril directly to you," he said, "though I can steer you towards a few nifty toys to help you catch him. I will be going soon, though Mazn'reysla and Ilzir can take it from here." He then looked back at Entreri with a smile. "You will see me again."

"I'm sure," the assassin replied in a weaker voice than he had intended.

Vhaeraun walked up to Drizzt and put a hand on his shoulder. Drizzt felt a cold comfort wash over him. He closed his eyes for a second, savoring the chill and seeing wisps of shadow dance behind his eyelids, reinvigorating him…and sending a tiny warning in his brain similar to the one he received after conjuring shadow to drive Moril from Jarlaxle. He let out a long breath and opened his eyes, the renewed adrenaline in his body making him bolt to a stand. His back felt fine and the ache in his leg had also vanished.

Vhaeraun looked at him and smiled, putting a hand on his shoulder.

"My champion," the god said, "I am most pleased."

Drizzt was about to give a wise retort before the being's eyes rolled back and he collapsed into Drizzt's arms. Drizzt held Mazn'reysla's form, slowly lowering him to the floor. The shadows around the room dissipated as the torch on the wall reignited and the glow around the cleric's form evaporated.

Mazn'reysla was still for a moment, then his eyes slowly fluttered open. He looked at Drizzt, noting the concern in his face before smiling. Mazn'reysla leaned in and kissed him, putting a hand in his tousled white hair.

"We have much to do," the cleric whispered in Drizzt's ear with his own soft voice, "I say we all take a little time to rest…and clean ourselves up because some of us smell horrid."

Drizzt managed a weak chuckle, his gaze falling idly to the floor…and on the bloody shuriken lying in a small pool on the rug. Maz looked down at it as well and back at Drizzt.

"Out of the purest curiosity," the ranger said, "what enchantment was placed on that blade?"

Maz's smile became slightly grim.

"It was a weapon likely handed to the lad personally by Tymora," the cleric said. "Interestingly enough, it has but one, powerful dweomer."

Drizzt raised his eyebrows in curiosity, keeping half an eye on Maz and the other half on Entreri, who had fallen to a sit against the wall while running a hand through his ponytail with a angry, yet tired expression.

"A blessing of pure…holy energy," the cleric said.

Drizzt closed his eyes, responding with a long, painful sigh.


	16. Pleasant Dreams

**The Lesser Evil: Hooligan's Holiday**

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of R.A. Salvatore/Wizards of the Coast ©. I don't own them; I'm just examining all their possibilities.

Author's Note: Yeah, I know it's been over a month since I last updated. things have been insane, though I hope it's not going to be this long to update next time. I'll see what I can do about that.

**Chapter 16: Pleasant Dreams**

The warm steam he had basked in the past hour took on the tiny, yet too noticeable hint of a chill; signaling that his moment of warm meditation was about to end and force him to actually think again.

Entreri lifted his head from the black marble edge and took a better look at the purple, black-lined drapes that surrounded the round tub, noticing now that the steam from his bath was rising a little lighter.

This had been his sanctuary for the past hour, his warm, soothing retreat from the horrific revelations of the past evening.

It had been at least an hour, perhaps a little more since Mazn'reysla had escorted him and Do'Urden out of the small chapel following Vhaeraun's visit, following those wonderful images of Jarlaxle stark mad.

The cleric's tone was too happy and too gleeful after allowing his god to use his mortal form as a vessel to deliver his words to the companions, though the other two walked into the hallway like a goodly person leaving a funeral.

The sudden bevy of Sharran priestesses greeting them at the door followed by their white-haired, black clad Mother Superior was the last thing the any of them needed after leaving that damned room. As the priestesses escorted the two to their lavish suite near the top of the tall temple, both barely noticed anything until meeting the calming darkness of the room.

The suite was an enclosed foyer and sitting room with two bedrooms on both sides, each with their own plush velvet bed and individual bathing room. A tray of various fruits, breads, and meats and a selection of wines and spirits were placed on a black velvet inlaid black table in the suite's foyer complete with a goblin slave to taste small morsels for them to prove they were not poisoned.

Entreri had no stomach for anything following that ritual; in fact he was doing all he could not to heave the tiny bit of tavern cheese he choked down earlier onto the floor of this sacred temple in a pretty green mess.

He could not help but wonder why the high priestesses of a vindictive, sadistic deity such as Shar would paint on their most pleasant faces and volunteer to serve their every need, though none of the reasons were very favorable. He was half tempted to inquire about any agreements Shar may have made with the Dark gods as Gond had made with all the besmirched deities, though he lacked the ambition. It wasn't as if they would be forthcoming with an answer anyway, though he suspected as much from the charming, sweetly poisoned smiles of the Mother Superior and her priestesses.

Regardless, he managed to eek his way into one of the rooms, doing a cursory inspection before slamming the door and finding the nice, cozy-looking, trap-free tub he filled from the small tap on the side with steaming hot water. It would be another series of inspections before he allowed himself feel safe enough to strip and lay his naked form in the perfumed water.

Entreri knew he was vulnerable like this, though it was a thought that washed away with every speck of road grime and sweat that had permeated his skin. It was a moment of purification, allowing himself to become one with the steaming water and drown every horrible vision and thought flying through his brain.

Now the warmth itself was melting away, finally proving the tub was not enchanted…to his chagrin. With a groan he sat up and leaned his elbows against the sides, finally deciding it was time to stop hiding from every ounce of blood and feces that had been shoved in his face…blood and feces that felt like his own, or at least of his own making.

"In the eyes of the gods, Artemis Entreri, you are quite frankly fucked," Vhaeraun in Mazn'reysla's skin sneered through his very being.

It wasn't like a thousand different clerics, paladins, and other sort of crusader of all persuasions hadn't said the same thing to him in several different languages and several different manners of speech over the course of his existence. This time, however, it actually stung him and he was still trying to squeeze out the poison lest it completely consume him.

All this to satisfy some godly brat's sick humor while whipping his chosen attack dogs into the proper bloodthirsty frenzy to sick them on Moril…

For what reason?

It was a question that was now gnawing at the back of his mind. Entreri leaned forward, allowing his sopping black hair hang over his shoulders and touch the surface of the water as he rested his chin in his hands.

He couldn't ignore the flare in his brain wishing to see a painted harlequin in bloody ribbons for turning Jarlaxle into a quivering mess. As for exactly why this bothered him, it was another thought he shoved out of his brain as he registered the fact Moril's rape of Jarlaxle's mind was an offense that was best punished by a slow, choking death.

The question that ate at him the most, though, was why Vhaeraun cared. Entreri had heard enough about ur-priests in his travels to be familiar with their hatred of the gods (if only that). Vhaeraun probably lost a temple to this madman…though there was more to it, his brain continued to scream.

The question maddened him, though another tiny flag was waving in his consciousness; why did he actually care why Vhaeraun wanted Moril. He was a hardened assassin who rarely gave a toss as to who he was supposed to kill and why. Artemis Entreri had killed hundreds of people without giving any second thoughts about anything other than getting the job done quickly and quietly. His coffers were filled by commoners, pashas, royals, everyone from every race. His services were even rendered by two lemurs that made a bet with two others to see if a human could kill as efficiently as their race (his employers won).

Though the lemurs were far from gods, he thought. Finally he was at the meat of what bothered him about this job so much.

This time, a deity was not only acquiring his services but doing so with his own soul as payment, for whatever reason. Entreri had little love for any deity…which is likely why he ended up…

He gave a harsh, painful sigh and threw his head back, though for some reason that thought didn't horrify him as it did just an hour ago.

Entreri slowly brought his head down, forcing his eyes down to the center of his chest. The tiny scar blended in with his pale skin tone and was covered by the thin, black hair on his body, though the mark still stuck out to him as if Do'Urden's shocking dagger was still embedded into his chest. Normally he avoided looking at it, though now he stared at it as if staring down an opponent.

It was a thought that made him force a smirk; a long time ago he faced off against another opponent who was the ultimate symbol of his tiny bit of weakness. Now that opponent was a kind of comrade, maybe this could be as well; just another challenge that made him stronger and rewarded him in the long run.

Entreri sighed again and looked at the ceiling.

Yes, he had seen an afterlife of horrors. Yes, he knew it was likely he could travel there again when his number was officially called…though maybe there was a way to avoid that and still keep his freedom and dignity.

He couldn't believe he was following this thought process, but Artemis knew there were times he had no choice but admit he could not accomplish something alone and the circumstances were beyond him. This was not admitting weakness or defeat; it was simply admitting the truth of the situation to find a more effective solution.

Maybe this was the time to keep an open mind and weigh every option offered to him before all his choices dropped dead. Maybe shutting out all suggestions and offers was more foolish than cautious.

Entreri allowed himself a little more conscious relaxation, leaning his back against the smooth marble and letting his arms rest on the sides of the tub.

He had spent the past four days on his highest guard, a state that completely frightened him. In such a defensive mode he could not think clearly and every reaction was instinctual…just like…

Entreri leaned his head back and groaned. So this was a peak inside Do'Urden's maddened brain. If he stayed in this state for too long he would likely start slaughtering people too…like he had Jordani Pilazi.

Maybe this was the time for him to experience true validation, he thought as he idly flicked the water with the realization that seemed to come from nowhere. He didn't want to follow this line of thought but it seemed to just come. Maybe unraveling the true mystery that was Moril was a key to a large treasure whatever it was. Maybe it was time to start thinking on a higher level, embracing the concept of the spirit long enough to understand this opponent…and find his exploitable weaknesses. This one challenging quarry had already defeated one of them; though two were left standing...and one of them had embraced the concept of using higher powers to succeed.

Maybe he would finally have to use Do'Urden's spiritual devotion to help carve the best key while he found where it fit. All he had to do now was open his mind to all the possibilities.

A lingering smirk found a way onto his face as his head fell back on the porcelain and he closed his eyes.

------------

_Chaos is my oldest most trustworthy friend; the only facet in my existence that has been dependable and constant. _

_I have breathed and walked in this plane for seventy-eight years yet I have lived four times with each new life completely different than the first. Just when I think I have found my peace, my definition in world, the wheel of fate turns and throws me screaming into a new existence from which I am forced to start from with nothing save for the lessons I have learned from each passing identity. Yet the Menzoberranzyr prince, the Underdark hunter, the goodly ranger, and the marauding rogue are all clawing at each other as their bodies still reside in my soul. _

_I thought I found myself a year ago, yet I find myself facing the mirror again and being forced to defend that which I have killed and died for._

Drizzt threw his pen down on the parchment, a smattering of black ink going across the page and blotting out a few of the words that came from his head at the moment. He let out a sigh and plopped his thin, leather-bound journal on the small table beside him in his quarters.

He raised his clove stick and took a long draw, the sweet, bluish-white smoke then trailing past his lips and under his nose; calming him almost instantly. Drizzt leaned further back in the plush, black velvet chair; his bare back savoring the softness before his feet joined in as he curled one knee to his chest. He rested his arm lazily on the arm rest made of a black fur he did not want to identify now, staring at the end of the brown stick and watched the thin line of smoke trail upwards; though at a small waver indicative of his shaking hand.

He was due for a semi-decent Reverie a little earlier than he had thought…that and the circumstances of that evening had been more than a little stressing. He did not want to even think about meeting Regis again or the sight of Jarlaxle bound and stark mad. Then there was Entreri's enraged, yet helplessly frightened expression as Vhaeraun (in Mazn'reysla's body) essentially told the assassin his fate rested in his hands. The thought of his own injuries that night was a matter he wanted no recollection of now.

Drizzt idly looked down at the bottle on the floor leaning against the chair still filled to partway down the neck. He had snatched the bottle of Scardale brandy from the snack table a little while ago on instinct, but he had only taken a few sips since; enough to remind him of "home" before setting it down and forgetting about it. It was another thought that brought a smile to his face: he had not touched any liquor since the horrible night on that beach just before they met the clerics of Gond.

His mind floated to another proud achievement; he had managed to find a state of complete calm with minimal outside effort. Granted he had been puffing on one clove for the past few minutes, though in the past it would take a few cloves and a bottle of some hard liquor to calm him down. Maybe he had found some calm…a calm his companions were formally losing.

The assassin had not said a word since the end of the ritual; his searing glances at his drow companion combined with his wounded-animal expression clearly communicated that he wasn't to be bothered on the agonizing pain of a slow death. Drizzt could blame him for nothing.

The thought started small, though slowly built up in Drizzt's brain. It was like a farce of his concerns; the truly horrible situation looking almost foolish in its own terrible light. It was truth, yet one he could handle a little easier than he had before.

A smile spread painfully over his face. He took another slow draw from his clove and blew out a stream with a small chuckle as he thought of the whole situation; of Entreri's loss of calm, Jarlaxle's loss of sanity, Regis' loss of any delusions he had about his former companion's goodness...

"Welcome to madness, my friends," he whispered before taking a small puff. "You all call me insane, now you know how that feels."

He paused, watching a few wisps of smoke trail past his lips before giving a heartier cackle. He knew he was talking to himself, keeping himself amused while once again realizing how mad he looked.

"As if sanity and I get along at all," he replied to himself. "Why am I concerned?"

"Why indeed," a soft voice said behind him.

Drizzt didn't need to look back to see who it was. Instead he leaned further back in his chair while flicking a stray ash into a small incense bowl on the table beside him.

Mazn'reysla had excused himself earlier, muttering something about "Other business requiring my attention" before slipping out and leaving Drizzt by himself.

The ranger didn't know whether to be merely annoyed with Mazn'reysla for not politely bending over for him in his time of vexed need or to outright rip his heart out for playing them all like his toys. Instead he reminded himself that Maz had willingly played the toy himself…a toy in Vhaeraun's hand as the rest of them were.

"Have you accomplished your pressing business," Drizzt said in a cool, yet strained tone that reflected his immense displeasure with the cleric at that moment.

There was a pause, though Drizzt did want to know if Mazn'reysla was giving his usual unnerving smile or some other look. Maybe he had a dagger in his hand and was waiting to spill his blood before he turned around.

"I have, and at complete success," the cleric responded. "Our little project is at full health."

"Our little project?" Drizzt asked with an annoyed chuckle as a fire ignited deep in his stomach. This wasn't good at all. "I was unaware we had a little project, or maybe you are able to bear children and are telling me my usual precautions have failed."

Maz gave a shrill cackle in response.

"No not little in years, though certainly little in stature," the cleric replied.

Drizzt took a hard draw on his clove, some of the smoke going into his lungs with a searing burn as the rest of his form was ready to spring and cut Mazn'reysla into bloody bits fit for a hog trough. He exhaled the smoke in almost a growl as an increased tremble found the way into his hand.

He could have been referring to anyone, though hopefully not the one who was last left whimpering and broken in the alleyway. Mazn'reysla couldn't have brought him along with the other two companions in the teleport, though he could have always gone back to get him or maybe another caster accompanied them. Regardless, the results were the same.

"I hope you picked up no strays in the alleyway," Drizzt sneered, slowly turning around to look at the cleric and sure that "little project" wasn't standing behind him. Fortunately, Mazn'reysla stood alone with that usual stupid smirk. Drizzt sat back in his chair.

"He was found hurt and curling up a few feet away from a corpse," Mazn'reysla replied in the tone of a little kid asking his mother to bring in a baby dragon as a pet.

"Son of a bitch," Drizzt growled through his teeth, feeling the naturally flimsy grip on his temper completely slipping again.

"You were his traveling companion, Drizzt; the one who has saved his life on numerous occasions," the cleric said calmly. "It would be courteous to shelter him and heal his wounds, though giving him some explanation of your current situation, which you owe him at least that much, is too much to ask."

"I owe him a slow, painful death for setting me up like that with the Pilazi brat," Drizzt said evenly, staring out the high frosted window overlooking the city, his tone giving away his growing loss of control. "A knife to the back and a holy shuriken to the leg is what I got for that happy fucking reunion. I should vivisect the little bastard for that, dissect his cute rumblebelly and see if all he's made of is now pudding and sausage bits."

"I know my opinion means nothing, but keeping him alive would further benefit our cause."

Drizzt leaned back and took a calmer draw, retaining control of his temper…temporarily at least. Mazn'reysla's words were a bomb of logic that he cursed himself for not seeing earlier. He looked up and saw the cleric a foot to his side and looking down on him patiently.

"Oh," he replied. "Tell me, dearest Mazn'reysla, how would he be a benefit to our cause?"

"I figure he was no mere traveling companion to Jordani Pilazi. That little mace of his has been given a few more enchantments as of late; a powerful luck charm that, according to my contacts in the other planes, is rare unless given by one specific deity."

Drizzt gave a long sigh, this whole subject making his blood boil as was Mazn'reysla's creep closer.

"You're not telling me that he is Tymora's second, are you?"

"Very good."

"Though not for him or us. Tymora's champion is now a corpse marinating in his own blood, unless you have changed that."

"Oh no, his soul is with his goddess now and his body is in the temple incinerator roasting as we speak. We wouldn't want any necromancers getting their clawed hands on him, though his second is in ours."

Drizzt bit his lower lip in concentration, before throwing his hands up in frustration.

"We are on this mission for Vhaeraun, are we not?" he sighed. "What does our Masked Lord say should be his fate."

"Three of the six champions are dead, that you know," Mazn'reysla said, putting a hand on the chair and letting his longer fingernails catch in Drizzt's white hair. "The number of Moril's enemies, those with great power to thwart his designs, drops steadily. I will let you make your own conclusions from there."

Drizzt arched his eyebrow and nodded as a shallow understanding set in as well as the comforting knead into his scalp.

"You're proposing 'the enemy of my enemy is my friend' logic," he said, allowing himself to relax and moved his head to give Mazn'reysla better access to his hair. "I can agree with that, though Regis is near useless in combat and magic. Stealth and gathering information yes, though completely inept at the rest. That and I'm sure enough time around Artemis will cause his heart to cave in, though maybe his time with us will be short."

"As will your journey be if all my research goes well."

Drizzt rolled his eyes, another damn enigma.

"He has more amenities than you know and I ask for you to trust me on this," Mazn'reysla said, leaning down and whispering in his ear.

"Fine," Drizzt said, taking another long draw from his clove and blowing out a long stream that calmed his nerves. "How fares he now?"

"Your little shove against that wall broke two of his ribs, though nothing a couple potions could not fix within an hour. He is in a nice, cozy bed blissfully asleep. Mistress Overmound, his appointed cleric, is tending him now."

Drizzt gave a small chortle; the thought of a halfling in Shar's service was rather amusing.

"I will leave his fate in your hands," Mazn'reysla said, one finger trailing down Drizzt's cheek. "If he accompanies us, leaves here in whatever state, or dies in whatever fashion, that will be your decision to make."

Drizzt took one last draw from his clove, blowing out a long stream in contemplation.

"What I need now is my Trance," he replied, twisting the end of his stick reaching to put it into the incense bowl…before taking a hard grasp of Mazn'reysla's robed nether regions. "Though I will take a little refreshment first."

Mazn'reysla chuckled, inching his hips forward and putting a hand through Drizzt's hair.

"You did miss me, didn't you," he asked, allowing himself to be pulled into his partner's arms.

"Don't let it inflate your ego," Drizzt replied, pulling Mazn'reysla down for a violent kiss and not caring when he was pushed forward in the chair as a nimble hand undid his trouser strings.

---------

"Pleasant dreams," Mazn'reysla whispered in Drizzt's ear.

His tired lover made a clumsy effort to pick himself to a full sit in the plush chair while trying to re-tie his trouser strings.

Mazn'reysla stood up, closing his robes giving Drizzt a small kiss on the cheek.

"Yeah I missed you," Drizzt groaned with a smile.

Gradually he plopped his head against the back as his white lashes fluttered with the beginnings of Reverie.

Mazn'reysla returned the smile, giving one last, longing look at his lover and for some reason, hoping he would not be to angry with him for the next turn of events.

He then turned and walked to the door before anyone could remind him he was needed somewhere else.

--------

The heavy, Calimport sun rose in the high, arched windows of the guild's study. Entreri stood for a second and looked out at every spire and dome of the old city; his city.

With a proud smirk in spite of himself, he twirled around and walked through the room, entering the long, simply decorated hallway of beige desert stone. The spring days were becoming warmer, yet he still felt comfortable in his favorite black cape made from a light, breathable material that also acted as a form of armor. He idly looked down at the red and black embroidery on his sleeveless, white tunic, one of the few items of personal vanity he had allowed himself in the past year; the change in his situation encouraging a slight change in wardrobe. Maybe Jarlaxle had rubbed off on him more than he cared to admit, he thought with a small smirk.

It was business as usual in the simple hall of the guild. A few minor thieves would cower from him with venomous sneers, which he would greet back with a polite smile. A passing minor mage/master con artist made no eye contact with him at all, found a different side of the maroon carpet to walk on. Entreri knew it was never entirely safe to travel so openly among this group, yet hiding in his quarters was a coward's retreat.

Entreri turned the corner, dodging the small palm tree in a terra cotta pot as he and peered through the open door of another small study. Drizzt was sitting at his desk, slender feet planted on the fine wood as he gave some kind of a briefing to the three drow rogues from Mir he kept under his watch. Drizzt looked idly over and gave Entreri a bored look in greeting.

"So our grand guildmaster decides to grace us with his presence," the drow said, his face turning into a small smile.

"Try to look honored by that, Do'Urden," he replied, looking further into the room and seeing Mazn'reysla reclining on the plush, red couch in his casual, patchwork robes with his face buried in a tome. "You have what I asked for?"

Drizzt reached from under the desk and produced a small, black bag before tossing it to the guildmaster. Entreri caught the bag and felt the weight of the gems he had been waiting for.

"Impressive," he said in a sarcastic tone. "Though you should have given this to me earlier, for it will take me a whole afternoon to wipe the blood off these precious, precious stones."

"Hey, I collect, you collect," Drizzt said. "You know better than to question my methods."

Entreri jiggled the bag in his hand, testing the weight, before nodding to the group and leaving. His eyes trailed back to the various tapestries and wall baubles his lieutenant had collected over the years, though they always fell on one, painful artifact: the great plumed hat resting atop two crossed sabers. He didn't know why he always looked at this eyesore, and he did not care to think on why it made his heart hollow for a second afterwards…

Though he had only seen this little display…twice.

"Clever," he muttered to himself, turning around and walking closer to Drizzt.

He knew this was a dream, he knew if all continued on the robed cleric on the couch still paging through a tome was actually not Mazn'reysla. He gave the figure a sneer, though he, unsurprisingly, ignored him.

Do'Urden was now putting a whetstone to his favorite utility dagger, barely paying any attention to the rest of the room.

"You know, Do'Urden, I don't think Jarlaxle will be too pleased to see you took his hat from him," he whispered in the drow's pointed ear.

If this was truly a dream, it would end there. If it was a series of shadows meant to show him the future, he would get an answer as to why the hat and sabers were on the wall instead of on the person of their third companion…whatever became of him.

Drizzt took his eyes off the dagger as a mildly confused expression spread over his face. Entreri smiled, awaiting an answer. Drizzt looked up to the hat and gasped, putting the dagger on the desk. Entreri's smile melted and the puzzled expression was now his as Drizzt slowly rose and stared at the hat while shaking his head.

"I was hoping you could answer that for me," Drizzt said, turning around and looking at his companion.

"Are you in Trance," the assassin asked gravely.

Drizzt nodded.

"You fell asleep in the bath didn't you," Drizzt asked.

"You clever little kids," a voice called from the side.

Drizzt and Entreri looked to the now black-clad drow on the couch who continued paging through his tome, though lowering it enough to reveal the edge of a black half-mask and a shock of blue hair.

The dreaming mortals looked at each other, then at the large, black chest that appeared on the desk. The chest opened revealing a mass of black diamonds…submerged in the rising wave of black blood that was soon oozing over the side and pooling around the desk.

Entreri then caught a figure in front of him. He looked up to see a gold-framed, full length mirror directly across from him and reflecting himself in the glass…only his pale skin was fading to pitch black as his goatee melted away. The assassin put a hand to his face and watched his long, black hair turn bone-white and his black eyes illuminate with a red glow.

The surprised drow in the mirror bearing his face then walked out of the glass and closer toward him, his confusion turning into happy wonder. Entreri instinctively took a step back as the drow reached out a slender hand and cupped his jaw before he could say anything; the chill of his flesh rendering Entreri practically helpless.

"He has your nose, Velz," a female voice called from the side.

Drizzt looked away from this bizarre vision to the couch, where now a voluptuous female drow reclined with the tome. Her body was covered in a form-fitting black leotard bearing spiderwebs covered by thick, black leather armor. She moved the book to display a beautiful face framed by wild white hair and covered by a black half-mask.

The shadows of the mask faded, giving Drizzt and Entreri the full vision of Ilzir's face…with glowing lavender eyes.

"Blame the Calishite blood, Hallia," Velz replied, his hardened features in a smile as a shadowy half-mask formed on his face. "Though he's handsome nonetheless."

"Hallia?" Drizzt asked out loud in words that seemed to echo through the room.

Entreri said nothing, managing to find the strength to get out of the drow specter's grasp before the second wave of cold hit from the direction of the new female. He looked up for a second toward the purple hat mounted on the wall…and the thick, black blood pooling down it in clotted clumps.

Drizzt noticed this as well and saw the blood from the chest ooze in a slow river toward the carpet and stream across the room just an inch away from Entreri's boots. The flow then stopped at the thick black puddle that had formed and melded with the mess. A wet mass then shot from the ground like a pillar of black pudding before taking the shape of a humanoid figure with a head, shoulders, legs, and torso.

The mass rose to just above Entreri's height, the head forming into a clown's face, then that of a crying infant, then that of a head whose flesh had practically melted before turning to a plasmatic gas and engulfing Velz's form.

Drizzt and Entreri were frozen in place. Both reached for their weapons…or at least they thought they did though in reality they merely stood and stared. The humanoid ooze rematerialized towards Hallia's side, leaving Velz a pile of flesh and sinew suspended in air…save for his now-white face carved into that of a bloody harlequin.

The ooze was now fleshier, resembling a wet shadow with distinctive limbs and a clown's face…now the face of a handsome young drow…then the misshapen visage shown before.

Hallia's face was blank as the specter came toward her. Drizzt tried to draw his scimitars only to find his hands locked in place…around the hilts of his weapons where that had not been able to go before.

Regardless, it was too late to prevent the ooze from washing over Hallia like a dusty wave. She let out a piercing scream that reverberate through Drizzt's memory and sounding horrifically familiar. The specter rematerialized into a full, black form, head bowed and stepping aside to reveal Hallia. She was now a skeleton with a few strips of flesh hanging from random places and her legs broken so her ankles touched the side of her still-intact head…which was now white and bore a harlequin's face.

Drizzt and Entreri held back gags, though their attentions now fell to the toned, nude male drow in front of them. He pulled his head up to reveal a black skull…that filled in with glowing red eyes as Jarlaxle gave them his most maniacal grin and a cackle that sounded other-worldly. His hardened features then smoothed and his facial structure changes as the red eyes became amber and a thick shock of white hair cascaded over his scalp.

Both assassins marked the face for the brief second it was visible, before it again morphed into the harlequin, then the misshapen mass, then the skull before the entire form exploded with a wave of black dust accented by a series of sickening cackles. The cackles then culminated into the shrill cries of two waking voices echoing through the halls of Shar's temple before the only sound left was gasping breaths in two rooms.

-----------

A hand clamped over his mouth prevented him from spitting up the vile mixture being poured down his throat. The hand on his throat made pushed the thick potion down.

At last it was over, the flowing slurry of death stopped going through his mouth though was now allowed to spread through every cell of his seated form like being bathed in shadowy lye.

With a scream, Jarlaxle opened his eyes and the searing agony stopped. He looked down, taking a few breaths as the wave of his own thoughts flooded his mind…and wondered how in the Hells he ended up in this ugly robe.

He let out a shrill cackle, starting slowly but steadily rising until it echoed off the stones and through the blissful emptiness in his mind; he didn't know how or why but his mind was closed again. The only inhabitants in his head now were himself and his many moods; the greatest feeling he had known in too long.

"Now could someone be a dear and take these damned cuffs off me, please?" he asked, his voice still a mass of giggles.

"Your wish is my command," a sickeningly familiar male voice said from the side.

Jarlaxle kept his gaze to the purple passing on the floor, the momentary shock fading before he mentally cursed himself for not seeing this coming sooner.

"Well met, brother," he replied in a cheery tone.


	17. By the Blood

**The Lesser Evil: Hooligan's Holiday**

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of R.A. Salvatore/Wizards of the Coast ©. I don't own them; I'm just examining all their possibilities.

**Chapter 17: By the Blood**

Jarlaxle didn't want to look up and face his new visitor whether by a latent self-preservation instinct, the lack of desire to be faced with another major source of stress…or being truly afraid.

He tried to block all these thoughts, end their discordant screaming, and get back to the business he had been ripped away from. Instead he kept his head down to the floor, now aware of the invisible rope of fear that kept his head in place. For some reason the image of him as a small boy looking down at the ground and even avoiding the feet of the priestess who kept him in fear of being disemboweled came rushing back. It was a stiff, hollow, helpless feeling that made his stomach turn.

How dare this braggart make the great Jarlaxle keep his head low.

Jarlaxle picked his heavy head up from his chest and glared in the direction of the speaker, his stomach dropping to meet the piercing red eyes of Gromph Baenre who seemed to tower over him. Regardless, he tapped into whatever strength was in his legs , finding his feet and pulling himself to a stand.

The searing sting through his ankles took whatever focus he had left in his leg muscles and hurled him back to the floor. The soft padding broke his fall but could do nothing to prevent his shoulder from being forced forward in an awkward position and sending another fire through his arm.

You just strained the muscle, his brain screamed at him lest any other terrible thoughts take their place. If this floor was not padded, it could have been worse.

Jarlaxle concentrated on the wound, mentally pushing the pain out and focusing it toward Gromph, who was still looking down at him with an irritated expression. Concentrating his muscles again, he managed with great difficulty to pull himself into a sit and looked directly up at Gromph…and seeing the shapes of other figures just beside him.

Jarlaxle raised an eyebrow and slowly turned his head to the side enough to see what other visitors the archmage brought in while not keeping his vision off his brother at all.

"Well, well, well," he said with a forced smirk as he faced the same spider-robed priestess who ripped off his skin. Judging by the black half-mask encasing her pretty eyes, he pegged her for a traitoress; only appropriate considering her very casual stance beside Mazn'reysla, whose slender form was encased in the black tunic, trousers, and boots of a servant of the Masked Lord. "So how many of Vhaeraun's collection bowls are being filled with House Baenre coin?"

Jarlaxle gave a weak grin, so many things starting to make sense yet more questions floated up like tadpoles in a corrupted pond with all ready to feast on him. The traitoress was self explanatory, but Mazn'reysla? Was he in Gromph's service all along or was this a new development? Regardless, he knew a certain unstable ranger who would be none too pleased with who his priest took as an ally…unless he was in on it too.

"Merely details, brother," Gromph said, walking to him and wrapping his hand around Jarlaxle's bald head forcibly turning his head forward. "We are here to help you with your little predicament."

Jarlaxle sneered before smiling, the pounding in his temples only getting louder as he tried to focus himself on staying conscious.

"Sending additional aid to help capture your quarry?" he replied. "That is truly generous of you."

"Considering our quarry already found you," the archmage said with a sigh, before patting his head. "You are tougher than I thought, dear Jarlaxle; withstanding all the intrusions of so powerful a magician and still keeping a few vestiges of your mind and bodily functions. You are truly powerful."

"I am well made, I guess," Jarlaxle quipped back with a small laugh.

Gromph raised a finely arched eyebrow in response before managing a single chuckle.

"And that is what is keeping you from complete oblivion," the archmage replied, "in more ways than you know, though you are not entirely free yet."

"So I noticed," Jarlaxle said. "Not to criticize your Art, brother, but I believe Moril was too powerful to be held at bay by that fabulous charm you sent me out with."

"I figured that would be the case," Gromph said.

A vein in Jarlaxle's forehead started throbbing, though he covered it all up with yet another smile as another thought came into his head. Gromph slowly paced around Jarlaxle, though he turned his head to keep him within his sights.

"You knew the amulet would not work?" Jarlaxle asked dramatically, softening his strained, angry voice into one of profound hurt. "Pardon me for my doubts, archmage, but you weren't trying to kill me were you? Or perhaps you used my companions and me as bait? I sincerely hope we have done nothing to loose your confidence."

"Relax, Jarlaxle," Gromph said, stopping behind him. "You have not outlived your usefulness, quite the opposite actually. Though it is me who is at fault here, I will admit with most…humility."

Judging by Gromph's smug tone and slight smirk, Jarlaxle doubted that humility was even a work in his ancient vocabulary. Regardless, he still played along.

"I underestimated the power and full intentions of your quarry," the archmage continued. "Given what you have been though, brother, I figured a pile of ashes would be all that was left of you. Moril has surprised me yet again, to your boon and bane."

Jarlaxle managed to shift his body around to face Gromph and the two clerics, fully noting the priestess' grave expression and the fact Mazn'reysla's eyes partially closed. He was likely communicating with his deity, meaning that Jarlaxle was either saved or screwed…perhaps a little of both.

"The game plan has changed," Gromph said, walking back around.

Jarlaxle rolled his eyes, straining to keep the archmage in his sights though every ounce of concentration was taken by the sharp sting in the side of his neck. He gasped in response and hastily tried to calm himself, but the ache only continued, though released as he felt something being taken out of the side of his neck. His neck cramped in the area of the initial pain as he managed to look up at Gromph and see what looked like a thin, sharp awl in his hand now covered in blood.

The pain started melting away, but the heaviness in his head only grew. The cloud formed and the throb started yet again; the feeling he had every time Moril…

"No, you son of a bitch," Jarlaxle grunted, trying to push out the intrusion as if pushing poison out of a wound, though the fog only rose. "Gods…dammit."

He braced himself against the padding, managing to hold one hand over the other and dig his fingernails in hard, trying to cause as much pain in his skin as possible to resist the searing push into his brain.

_You will only hurt yourself if you resist, my son, _the familiar, cursed voice sounded through his being. _I will only come out anyway, so you might as well allow it._

_No_, Jarlaxle's mind sounded back as if screaming away a terror, _you're done here. I will not allow this again!_

"Come out, come out, Nazir Klau'Thest," Gromph called in an annoyed tone emphasizing the name as he continued to circle Jarlaxle. "You can't avoid me any more."

The being in Jarlaxle's head almost gave an irritated sigh at the sound of the name.

_Relax, child,_ the voice said sternly, _this is my affair and it doesn't concern you_.

_This is my fucking head_, Jarlaxle's mind screamed back as he continued pushing the thing out, _I think this is my godsdamned affair!_

He continued pushing and felt the thing release…before giving him a sharp kick back and making him go to sleep at last.

Jarlaxle's muscles momentarily relaxed as his eyes closed. Gromph stood in front of him, looking for any blood running out his nose or ears. Instead his eyes opened…his glowing amber eyes.

"Are you finally ready to talk, Nazir?" Gromph huffed.

"For a few moments, maybe," Jarlaxle replied, his voice deeper with an other worldly distortion. "Though on my terms. This isn't your victory, elderboy."

"I never assumed it was," Gromph replied with a sneer.

-----------

Entreri knew that scraping a keen blade over his fragile flesh was the least sensible thing to do with his hands shaking as bad as they were. Regardless, he faced his own tired visage in the ornate, onyx lined mirror; dipping his hands in the black granite basin and lathering up the bar of jasmine scented soap he had neglected for the past two days all the while staring at the gray circles around his eyes.

He blinked then looked down to see his hands covered in a thick ball of white lather and the soap a gooey mess. Entreri took a second to almost meditate on the water down to every vein of granite and every bubble rising up.

He shook his head as if trying to wake up his brain before spreading the lather over his face softening up the thick growth that had formed from the road and his own neglect. He then took the simple, wood handled razor from the side of the basin and carefully positioned it on the side of his face, successfully controlling the shaking for the first time.

This was meant to be an exercise in self control…or distraction. If he let his thoughts get too down into his own affairs and take his concentration off this delicate act, the consequences could be messy. He managed to scrape the hair from his left cheek with nary a nick, stopping idly before reaching his lower jaw and looking at the line of hair that blended in with his thickening goatee. Maybe this could be a new look.

Entreri gave a light sigh, happy that he was thinking clearly at last…and happy that he was able to sense Do'Urden standing right behind him out of view of the mirror. The fact he did not sense him coming into the room was something he refused to scold himself over. The drow at least managed some subtlety for once, though his light, shifting stance gave him away. Entreri pulled his wet ponytail off his bare shoulder and boldly started scraping from his neck, curious to see if Do'Urden would try anything smart.

He didn't. Instead both remained perfectly calm, only the sound of the swishing water and the light scrap of a razor over skin.

"Did you lose the way to your own room, Do'Urden, or do you actually think you could sneak up on me?" Entreri asked calmly.

"Neither," the drow replied in the same tone. "I had a theory about Moril and just had to share with my companion; in the spirit of honesty of course."

"Of course," the assassin replied, finishing his neck and moving up to his right cheek.

"Doesn't it irritate your flesh to scrape it like that day after day?" Drizzt asked. "I can only imagine that it would be rather uncomfortable."

The edge of a razorblade was soon an inch from his ebony face, though he kept his arms folded and his stance against the wall casual, looking at the smirking assassin with a bored glare then allowing his eyes to follow the small drip of water that fell on his black tunic.

"I take it you're not interested in a demonstration," Entreri said.

Drizzt smiled and raised his eyebrows. Entreri chuckled and pulled back the blade, standing in front of the mirror with his back directly to the drow as he resumed his business.

"Go on," the assassin said. "You interrupted my routine to tell me your thoughts about Moril, you may as well speak your peace."

"You already have Velz's nose, I can imagine you have his ego as well," Drizzt said, noting his companion's posture stiffen suddenly.

He heard the human give a hard sigh though make every effort to keep it quiet.

"You never told me what became of our companion," Entreri sneered.

Drizzt gave a sigh of relief.

"So I wasn't going mad after all," the drow said with a nervous laugh.

"No, you did that a long time ago."

"This time we're going mad together. How lovely."

"I'm getting weepy thinking on it," Entreri said dourly. "Now, your theory please."

"Those two dark elves who came before us," Drizzt said, "their faces were masked by black shadows; a sign of Vhaeraun's high favor upon any priest. The simple explanation is that Hallia and Velz, whether actual spirits or metaphors, were two powerful and highly favored clerics."

"If those two were highly favored clerics, you assume the black ball of goo that destroyed them was Moril," Entreri replied.

"Or the being who hides behind Moril's mask."

"You think that maybe Moril's not an individual but a power," Entreri said, examining the other strip of hair he had left in the other side of his jaw before rinsing off his razor.

"It's an entity nonetheless, though what sticks out in my mind is the form it took before we woke up. You remember that part, don't you?"

Entreri rubbed the lather around his neck and carefully scraped upward.

"The drow with the glowing yellow eyes," the assassin said. "Anyone you know?"

"Never seen him in my life," Drizzt said. "The only other drow who had that color eyes that I know of is our employer, though rumor has it he has changed that color to standard red since last I saw him."

"And this one did not look like him at all. So an unknown drow, it is."

"It would only make sense. _Mori_ means 'black' in the elven language and their most polite word for us is _mori-quessir_, literally meaning 'black elf.' The name could indicate he is hiding in plain sight."

"So you have your answer then," Entreri said, rinsing off the blade and positioning up trim his left sideburn. "Moril is drow ur-priest who slaughtered two of Vhaeraun's most favored clerics. The mystery is solved."

The scraping of the blade was the only sound in the room, save for the small sigh the assassin caught in his keen hearing.

"And you're not buying it," the assassin said with a smirk.

"It's too simple," Drizzt replied darkly. "There's no way in the Abyss Vhaeraun would just hand that information to us and there was too much happening in that vision to be simple show."

The drow leaned against the wall, pondering in silence, though trying to force his mind to think on another possibility that scared him.

"What of Hallia and Velz, then?" he asked tentatively. "Velz is your mirror image as a drow, Hallia has..."

"Your eyes," Entreri added, looking back at Drizzt. "Your theories on that?"

"Too many and none that make sense. They connect us though."

"You seemed to recognize the woman…"

"Her name only. Mazn'reysla told me in a communication…"

The assassin gave him a patient glare. Drizzt grimaced and nodded his head.

"Care to hear it direct from the horse's ass?" Drizzt said.

Entreri looked thoughtfully down at his razor and smiled.

"By all means," he replied.

"This is fact-finding only," Drizzt scolded, "nothing too messy."

"So you're telling me for once?"

"Shut up."

Entreri washed off his razor before setting it to the side of the basin and grabbing a nearby black towel. Drizzt went into his belt and drew the red stone.

"Father Mazn'reysla your presence is requested for a little information," he said into the stone, which glowed in response as the message was sent.

Entreri wiped off the remains of soap on his face before looking in the mirror and rubbing a hand over the thin beard he kept in place. Drizzt nodded his head in approval.

"Gods…dammit!" came Jarlaxle's scream over the stone.

Drizzt nearly dropped the stone as Entreri jumped and gasped. The assassin clutched the side of the basin, steadying his shaking muscles and taking deep breaths to calm not only the shock but the complete embarrassment over such an obvious loss of his cool. A small burn in his left index finger brought his eyes down to the basin, where the open razor rested next to a tiny cut on the side of his finger from when he jumped. He casually positioned his thumb over the small trickle of blood and silently cursed the situation.

"What in the six hundred sixty-six layers of the Abyss was that," the human said between clenched teeth.

Entreri looked back at Drizzt, who stood still, the hand clutching the stone shaking hard as its owner took deep breaths.

"Water," a voice whispered over the stone, "tells much."

"Godsdammit!" Entreri groaned.

Drizzt held up a finger and walked over to the basin. Entreri shot him a curdling glare as Drizzt's quick hand dunked the stone in the basin with the human's hand following it. Before he could pick the stone up, the cloudy water turned a shadowy black. Entreri pulled his hand out and backhanded Drizzt across the face. Drizzt was sent back a few steps but managed to keep his balance. He grabbed Entreri's hand and pressed his fingers down on his knuckles to crack his joint enough to startle him.

Entreri flinched with the force, which was enough to shock him back into a shaking calm. Both sets of eyes looked down at the basin and then faced a familiar purple padded room. Jarlaxle was sitting in the center, still bound, though his eyes were now glowing yellow. His companions both took breaths and stood back, their attention fully grasped by the sight of Jarlaxle surrounded by that same otherworldly aura he was when possessed by Moril in the Dragonmere.

Standing next to him in full view was another drow in blue robes, though worn over a simple black tunic and blue silk leggings. His attire was a little different, though his identity was clear: Gromph Baenre was becoming more involved in the situation, an ill sign indeed.

Drizzt audibly groaned, though Entreri grabbed his shoulder joint and squeezed hard. The drow snapped him a glare, but Entreri shook his head with a look of warning. Drizzt nodded; there was a possibility the communication could still be two-way at least by sound especially considering Gromph's level of power and sensitivity.

"Are you finally ready to talk, Nazir?" Gromph huffed folding his arms and looking down at Jarlaxle.

"Nazir?" Drizzt and Entreri mouthed at the same time.

"For a few moments, maybe," Jarlaxle replied, his voice deeper with an other worldly distortion that chilled his companions to the bone. "Though on my terms. This isn't your victory, elderboy."

"I never assumed it was," Gromph replied with a sneer.

"What the fuck," Drizzt mouthed, stealing a brief glance at Entreri who looked just as perplexed as he did.

He looked back down at the water to see Gromph gave a smiling sneer while Nazir in Jarlaxle's flesh sat back with an annoyed look.

"Now that you have my attention," the being said, "speak your peace and make it quick. I have much to do."

"Indeed, you have been a very busy man," Gromph replied, "though I did not come here to stroke your fragile ego by naming all your deeds. You do have the attention of quite a few people."

"Including you," the being replied. "Is that why you sent your living flesh golem and his lackeys from Vhaeraun's harem after me? I don't know whether to be honored or insulted, though I should be more ashamed that you would have the gall to think you could capture me."

"My error," Gromph said, giving a mocking bow. "I mistook you for a minor mage with the temper of a child and no ounce of creativity in his body, or at least what you used to be."

Jarlaxle's face winced before curling into an uncomfortable sneer as Gromph's smirk widened.

"Who do you take me for, elderboy?" the being replied. "If you take me for Nazir Klau'Thest, that pathetic lackey you used to tow around to suit your own amusement, just remember that he is dead; burned to death with the rest of his House a very long time ago. You were the one who witnessed his death, or at least was responsible for it."

"Ah, my mistake," Gromph said dramatically. "Instead I should call you Moril, which you truly have to admit…Nazir, is a rather dull Name for the Art itself. You are giving yourself away in your lack of creativity."

"You think petty insults are the way to coddling my favor, elderboy?" Moril said with a chilling laugh, "you are still wasting my time."

Jarlaxle's body was bathed in another black glow as he closed his eyes. The glow continued, but his face twisted into a visage of anger while Gromph stood patiently. Jarlaxle grunted and strained his muscles, though the glow started to fade. At last the light ceased and Jarlaxle opened his yellow eyes with a poisonous glare at the archmage.

"Be careful when you possess a body multiple times, Nazir," Gromph said, holding up the cup "you may just get stuck in it when your original essence is purged. You are only here due to my putting a tiny bit of you back in."

Gromph then held up the awl, producing a sneer from Moril.

"You cannot completely purge him of me," the being hissed. "I am his curse and I am purging him. You underestimate the power of…"

"A braggart who has more power than he knows how to handle," Gromph replied, walking up to the water.

Drizzt and Entreri honed their muscles to dive from view, though Gromph didn't glance at the water, instead turning to the side. The image shifted to show Ilzir in the her usual spider robes glaring at Jarlaxle through her black half mask with a face of anger and hurt. Gromph handed her the cup and the focus was once again on Jarlaxle.

Drizzt let out a sigh that sounded like a growl. The image was likely coming from Mazn'reysla's perspective which had so many horrible connotations. He put the thought out of his head for the moment, knowing he would have to deal with his priest later, and turned his attention back on the vision.

"What in the name of the Demonweb have you gotten yourself into, Nazir?" Gromph asked with a sigh.

The being winced at the reference though his grimace slowly twisted upward into a vindictive smirk.

"You know the measure of my power, slave," Moril said. "You know you are trifling with forces too dangerous for even you."

"Yes, you beat me at last," Gromph replied dourly, "or at least think you have, or at least that's what you're master would have you think."

"Master? Hah! I need no higher-up; no master, no demon, no god can control my destiny. Those who have tried to destroy me have been eliminated and I will consume those who continue their pursuit." Moril then glared toward the water looking back and forth menacingly from the source of the vision to Ilzir. "Like the Hallia and Velz's seed who you sent after me."

The vision turned toward Ilzir, who was clenching her fists and visibly trying to stay calm.

"You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you…Moril," Ilzir hissed.

Jarlaxle gave the same maniacal grin and cackle as Entreri and Drizzt remembered from the dream.

"She closed her legs so tightly that I had to snap them," the being said. "She did make a fine flesh sculpture, the way her ankles touched the side of her head. Unfortunately Velz was a little more flexible; it was almost no fun at all skewering him. He didn't even scream as I pulled his muscles off strip by strip."

Ilzir started shaking, yet a slender ebony hand from the source gently touched her shoulder.

"That's the last time I try to help you," Nazir," Gromph tsked. "I try to give you work and you tear your employers apart."

"Consider it a takeover," the being said. "Now Hallia, Velz, and Vhaeraun's group of happy fuck friends are in my gentle embrace."

Drizzt and Entreri gave each other a quick glance and nodded, so much supposedly explained.

"As are their caverns?" Gromph asked. "So that explains the fast movements around Central Faerûn."

Jarlaxle's gloating expression melted into confusion, then anger, then a smug smirk.

"Do you think I have given you any power to stop me? Hardly," Moril said. "Go ahead, send your army into those caverns and I'll feast upon the organs of every last one of them and feed the scraps to my children. You, on the other hand, elderboy, can decide your own fate."

"Threatening me, are you?" the archmage said with a laugh.

"Making you an offer," Moril said.

Gromph laughed.

"You have a choice before you, elderboy; you can finally cast off your shackles to the City of Grand Bitches and every deal you have made with the Masked Whore and finally be free."

Deal with the Masked Whore, Drizzt thought, a light shining in his brain.

"I need you to collect a few debts for me," Vhaeraun said in his initial charge. "The how and the who will be revealed in time."

Drizzt's mouth curled into a smirk, so many more things beginning to make sense.

Jarlaxle's muscles strained as his own soul built up more energy from the potion he had been given earlier. His eyes faded back to red and Gromph greeted this new turn with raised eyebrows.

"Agreement with Vhaeraun, brother?" Jarlaxle said in his own voice, "I suspected as much."

Moril's hold became stronger, though Jarlaxle tapped into his own energy and managed to keep him at bay for a moment before losing control again.

"You're right," Gromph said. "The parlor trick won't last long."

Jarlaxle's eyes faded to yellow again.

"You try to stop me you will only die," Moril hissed, though Jarlaxle's tone was getting the best of his.

Gromph pointed to Ilzir, then the source of the vision, motioning them to come forward. Gromph held onto Jarlaxle's shoulders as the other two came beside him.

Jarlaxle tried to struggle, the weight of the hands keeping him down, helpless; just as he had been with the priestess.

"Stop it!" he screamed, trying to push out the force taking over his body. "Get out of me!"

_We are one, my child_, Moril's voice echoed in his mind.

_No we are not_, Jarlaxle screamed back, tapping into his energy and blasting at Moril as his form collapsed under the weight of the three sets of hands holding him down.

He looked around helplessly, seeing his horrible brother and the two masked creatures looming over him. The female raised the goblet of liquid that smelled like death and forced it past his lips. Jarlaxle flailed, trying to kick out of the way before Gromph held him by the throat as Mazn'reysla pulled his head back, and Ilzir poured the fiery, putrid death down his throat.

Jarlaxle choked, his gag reflex pushing out a bit of the liquid before his struggle melted and the poison went down his throat.

His vision went black, though his energy surged. He was now floating in a thick ocean, breathing in blood like it was air.

A figure floated toward him; a young male drow whose mouth hung open and his yellow eyes glowed as he gave the cries of an infant. The ocean of blood became a mass of spiders, then spiders floating in the blood. The young man appeared in the middle of this mess, his black skin slowly falling from his body and joining the wave of blood, spiders, smoke, and chants to Lolth in High Drow.

The infant screamed again, the screams distorted at first then becoming louder as more chunks of the man flew off. The drow let out his own scream that melded with the child's cries as he fell apart into a blob of bone and sinew…reforming as Jarlaxle started to surface in this lake of spidery death.

The chants became louder as he rushed to the surface, the cries of the infant also increasing in volume.

He surfaced into a glowing, purple room. A pair of ebony hands bearing bracelets and rings carved like spiders and webs reached down into the blood for the shadowy remains of the young man. She lifted her arms from the mess, gently holding a screaming drow infant; wiping the blood out of his white stubble and his plump ebony body.

"You are most perfect," the familiar priestess cooed.

-------------

Entreri's clenched fist was trembling violently at his side.

Drizzt noticed this when he had to pull away from the image of Jarlaxle struggling under the grasps of the archmage and the two clerics. He looked down again to see the mercenary was sitting up on the floor, his eyes their usual shade of red as was his lips and the red that dripped from his chin and onto his white robe. He sat, staring at the wall and trembling.

Ilzir came behind him and untied the cuff binding his wrists. He made no moves as she removed the cuff then went to his legs and undid the cuff around his ankles.

Two words managed to escape the trembling mercenary's lips:

"It's impossible."

The vision jerked as Gromph stared directly at the water and rolled his eyes before everything faded to black and then the black of the water and the basin.

"I hope you enjoyed the show," a voice said from the back of the room.


	18. The Monster Behind

**The Lesser Evil: Hooligan's Holiday**

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of R.A. Salvatore/Wizards of the Coast ©. I don't own them; I'm just examining all their possibilities.

Author's Note: This chapter is a tad bit on the long side, but I hope it answers some of the questions left over from last chapter.

**Chapter 18: The Monster Behind**

Entreri flung the razor across the room through the blue, wavy image of Gromph Baenre; embedding the sharp blade in the mortar between two stones in the wall.

"While it was not my intention for you to witness that spectacle, I cannot say it did any harm," the image said in a hollow, echoing voice, completely ignoring the thrown blade or Drizzt and Entreri's murderous glares and honed muscles ready to spring.

Drizzt immediately recognized the person before them as a holographic image of the archmage who, thankfully, decided not to make a personal visit.

"Perhaps it benefited your cause to have some idea as to what you are up against," Gromph's projected image. "Unfortunately, as always with eavesdropping, your information is rather…abstract. I am sure the two clerics can fill in any details you may most likely have missed. As for me, by the time I am finished speaking I will be back in Menzoberranzan while you have no chance of finding me now and I need not explain why."

"Running are…" Drizzt began, only to get a punch in the shoulder from Entreri in return as he realized the figure was still talking.

"…for me," the image continued, the word "as" cut off by Drizzt's interjection, meaning he wasn't listening or this was a time delayed projection. "My part in this hunt is over. I have no interest in he who is called Moril. Whether Jarlaxle informed you of my role or not, that is your problem, though it is no longer my problem. Moril is far too reckless and unpredictable for my purposes and he would be nothing but a liability to me. Henceforth, I release all of you involved in this mess from any obligation to me."

"You bastard," Entreri whispered through gritted teeth.

"I have come to understand you two have your own obligations to capture this individual that have nothing to do with me."

"We'll see about that," Drizzt whispered with a sneer.

"I will leave you gentlemen to your business and say happy hunting. As for the third member of your party, he is still very much alive and under the able care of the clerics. He is free of Moril's influence for now, though as long as both remain alive they will be a bane upon each other. I do not know what effects this will have on him long-term, though knowing Jarlaxle he will likely be his old, charming self in no time."

Drizzt's stomach soured. He glanced over at his human companion, seeing Entreri's glare transform into almost a maddened snarl.

"In the event that Jarlaxle does become too…damaged by Moril's influence, I would say killing him would not be a wise idea and I will trust the clerics to explain you the reasons if you are curious. If you wish to find them, there is already an escort standing outside your door who will take you to them. Just know that despite all this, I am not without a little sympathy for your cause and have left you a few items that may aid you. Think of these as gifts."

The archmage's poisoned smile made both mercenaries want to leap and throttle him…if he were actually there.

"Let what you have witnessed be a lesson that what you are after is a very dangerous individual," the image said. "I shall leave the rest to you."

The image faded with a small flash of light. Drizzt flinched a moment in reaction, though continued to stare at the spot on the floor where Gromph once was.

"We're not done with you," he whispered into the empty air, taking a few breaths to calm his rage.

He slowly turned his head back to Entreri, who also stared at the spot on the floor. His hands hung at his sides, trembling violently as his upper lip twitched into a nervous sneer. What chilled Drizzt's blood the most was the wounded-animal look in on his face.

Entreri was in the slow process of sorting out all the information: his long-time traveling companion and…friend might not make it out of this mission with his life or his mind.

_As long as both remain alive, they will be a bane upon each other_

The words sounded through the assassin's mind like the tortured whispers of a ghost whose form was the floating image of Jarlaxle bound and bleeding. It was a thought that made his own blood boil, leaving him too enraged to even think on what such an emotion meant.

Drizzt stared at his companion and read every twitch, every tremble, and every stare like simple Common graffiti on a wall. It was like looking into a mirror and seeing himself with pale brown skin and black hair, only he was the one observing…calmly; understanding that one right push in any direction could have any effect. It was beginning clouds in the storm of chaos; a moment he had to pause and savor before making his next move.

Entreri gave an instinctive flinch at feeling Drizzt's cold breath against his burning face.

"You knew that reward was horse shit from the first moment you heard about it," Drizzt said matter-of-factly.

Entreri managed a weak grimace and shakily nodded.

"You knew that Jarlaxle's bright idea to go on this journey would lead you into nothing but trouble," the drow continued.

Entreri slowly nodded once again, his face looking even more pained for whatever reason.

"Good," Drizzt said. "Now you know you have no mission to continue."

Entreri's face straightened, though he made no moves.

"Unfortunately I am nicely wedged into this mess by my own bastard of a god and my only way now is forward against this…Nazir Klau'Thest or whatever the Hells he's called. Will I survive this fray with my mind in tact, I do not know. You, however," Drizzt clapped his hand on Entreri's shoulder, "have no obligations here. Congratulations, _khal abbil_, you're the luckiest one of us."

Entreri continued staring at the wall, though Drizzt could feel his muscles were painfully tense and only getting tighter.

"I recommend you run as fast and far as you can lest Moril or his masters and slaves decide you are worth something to them," the drow continued. "Though where will you go from here?"

Entreri slowly turned his head toward the ranger, the blank stare on his face more chilling than any of his typical death glares.

"We are in a land of commerce, after all," Drizzt said. "Maybe stay around here and explore Saerloon possibly Ordulin, maybe Westgate. Or perhaps this land is not to your liking."

Drizzt leaned in closer, studying Entreri's blank gaze, though he now wore a bemused smile.

"With little Jordani dead, perhaps you could return to Baldur's Gate; finally kill old Bani at last in his grief…or celebration, or just because you feel like it, and continue building your empire," the ranger said.

Entreri's tight manner became even more strained at this sentence. Drizzt merely smiled in return, knowing exactly where to take this.

"Maybe Baldur's Gate is no longer sufficient, maybe you should regroup in, I don't know, Waterdeep perhaps. Or you could try to re-conquer Heliogabalus…maybe even…ah…does one dare say…Calimport?"

The assassin noticeably winced at every reference, though he looked closer to actually communicating. His sneering grin widened and Drizzt braced himself for what may come next.

"You think you could get rid of me that easily, drow?" Entreri said in a calm hiss. "I am just as mired in this as you and you know that so well you're dancing in the shit waiting for me to announce myself."

A slender, brown-tinged hand found a comfortable place around Drizzt's Adam's apple, squeezing hard enough to cause some pain and threaten worse things. The drow's smile, however, remained in place.

"What would you have me do," the assassin growled, hoisting Drizzt a couple inches up the wall with the balls of his feet touching the floor, "fall weeping like a coward about being continuously bludgeoned and left for the dogs every minute for the past tenday? Or perhaps you would prefer I lay waste to a few thousand live bodies as is your preferred method. My apologies, but I don't foresee that happening."

"Then what does the Great Artemis Entreri plan to do?" Drizzt managed to gasp, his face perfectly straight.

"Finish this," the human said, his calm voice a declaration to the universe.

His hand momentarily unclenched, sending Drizzt's feet slamming into the floor and a momentary shock coursing through his soles. The drow winced for a second before focusing once again on Entreri's determined features. The calm lasted for a second before Entreri clasped Drizzt's collarbone hard.

"I don't give a fuck about Vhaeraun, or Gromph, or anything else connected with this nonsense. All I care about now is seeing Moril dead," the assassin said definitively. "And I will not allow Jarlaxle to be destroyed."

Drizzt nodded, feeling a moment of keen truth had come for both of them.

"We will see Moril dead," Drizzt repeated with a sneer. "And we will not allow Jarlaxle be destroyed."

"I will hold you to that," Entreri said, bouncing Drizzt against the wall and walking away.

"Gromph said the clerics are down the hall?" he said.

Drizzt rubbed his throat and nodded, though his companion ignored him as he picked his black tunic from the floor and put it on, then hastily grabbing his weapon belt from the floor and continued forward, then stopped and looked down.

Drizzt caught up to the human, his eyes then catching the sight of a large, black cat with glowing red eyes sitting patiently in the doorway and gazing at both of them in anticipation.

"Are you our escort," Drizzt said to Azril, a stiff smile coming on his face.

The feline then stood up proudly, wiggling its backside in insistence, and walking from the room.

Entreri groaned and followed beside Drizzt.

--------------

Every instinct screamed at him to avoid the patches of shadow that seemed to materialize in this place like foam on the sea. It was as if a part of his soul cringing at whatever forces of which it consisted.

Instead, as was always the case, his curiosity got the best of him.

Regis carefully snuck his small hand toward the small, black fog that crept out from the stone of the wall; his index finger managing to inch forward and tickle the mist.

The shadow dissipated as a wave of chill smacked against his knuckle. He merely drew back his hand, flexing his finger and shaking off the sensation exactly like accidentally smacking his hand against one of the veins of ice that covered Mithril Hall in the deep winter.

The halfling's momentary wonder at this strange sensation was short-lived as he heard more footsteps from down the hall. He stiffened behind the wickedly spiked black suit of armor behind which he had made his post since he snuck out of his sick room an hour ago.

He found some extra cover behind a simple bush of dried, purple roses he was certain was not alive or enchanted, peering out from the brambles in anticipation of who may come out. The passer-by turned out to be another, black robed female caster; a moon elf with stick-straight blue hair and a sour expression.

Many of these ladies, with the occasional lord, seemed to be the only residents of this…hall? Regis still wasn't sure what this establishment was, though he was liking it the less he more ventured forth. Everything here was dark, cold. The aura of chill permeated everything.

It was a contrast to his lush, brightly lit sick room and the kind, comforting halfling in the same robes who healed his wounds and brought him to health in such a short time.

The lingering ache in his ribs only made distracted his frenzied mind more as he thought of his horrible situation more. The only details he knew were not part of some dream were those provided to him by good Mistress Underhill.

Drizzt was indeed alive.

The very thought of it challenged every ounce of his reason and scraped against his very soul, making all things in any place irrelevant in the universe compared to that one reality.

The more he thought about it, the more it started making sense. Drizzt's corpse was never found; only his shattered scimitar, the river of his blood that supposedly flowed down a tree told the only tale, though the evil nature of the drow wrote the rest of the story.

In his brief moments of reason in the past hour, Regis felt a complete fool. He never challenged the assumption of Drizzt's passing, only went along with the insistences of everyone else that there was no hope. There was, however, the million fleeting wishes in his heart that his old friend had somehow escaped the fray, possibly had never been there in the first place and all the evidence otherwise was false.

Yet Drizzt Do'Urden was standing right front of him, reluctantly embracing him with warm flesh and a beating heart.

He looked slightly aged, the barely visible lines, hardened features, and nasty scars of one who had gone through too much in over a year. Instead of woodland leathers and that green, fur trimmed cloak he always favored, his clothes were stark black, his once wild white hair now neatly brushed out…and his bright, lavender eyes devoid of much of their former sparkle; the color had been drained from him and replaced with cold, though he was still alive.

Those were the only thoughts Regis knew to be real…or at least recognized to be real. They were all completely logical given the hell his old friend had been put through in the past year and a half.

It was only logical that he would idly sink blades into Jordani after being stabbed.

The rest of his thoughts were a blur that started coming clearer, though continuously faded with the denial of his soul; a series of visions that were too horrifying to be real. Drizzt sinking under Jordani's blade…and being rescued at the last second by…

Regis still shuttered with the very thought of it. The image of Artemis Entreri's cold black eyes would forever be seared into his brain. And there he was…and there Drizzt was right beside him.

It was a dream, he decided. Drizzt sinking his scimitars into Jordani, Regis' old friend, a man he once knew as a boy in Calimport. He was the mischievous son of Pasha Pook's lieutenant Bani Pilazi, a hardened criminal who treated his son more like an errand boy and whipping post. Now he was a successful rogue with a heart of gold. He was dividing the collection box of Tymora's church to many street people on the church's order when he ran into Regis; who fled to Waterdeep when he couldn't stand the sight of Mithril Hall anymore.

The blurred images were locked in his brain yet could not be deciphered; Jordani's gasping, dying body being passed back between Entreri and Drizzt as both punched their blades into him. It had to be a dream; the same dream that had a wounded Drizzt willingly falling back into Entreri's arms, the same dream put himself in the hands of that black-clad drow with blond hair.

Drow don't have blond hair, he told himself over and over again, you have seen thousands of them in your life and none of them had blond hair. He never existed. You were merely found in the alley by these kind healers who bound your wounds.

Regis was about to write off Drizzt's mere presence as a dream until good Mistress Underhill told him otherwise.

"Relax, sir," she said, her soft hand brushing his forehead. "Your dark elf friend is alive and fully recovered from his wounds. His quarters are just down the hall and I am sure he will be along for you soon."

Regis just went back to sleep soon after, the healer's soothing tea taking away his aches. He did wake up to find himself alone in the plush, black velvet room…and immediately knowing that Drizzt was very close. No one noticed when he snuck from the room, wearing the fresh silk shirt and fine cotton trousers Mistress Underhill had laid out for him before he woke.

He moved from one piece of furniture to one wall hanging to another, waiting for Drizzt to appear. A small warning in the back of his mind, however, kept him from knocking on any doors. It was a small sensation, a feeling of sorts that this place may not have been as friendly as he had thought in his injured stupor.

That same instinct told him to run, find any means out of this building and run for the nearest church of Tymora, the goddess of his friend; the goddess who had given him strength after a year of sorrow. Despite all the warnings, he needed answers; he needed to know what became of Drizzt, discover if Entreri was truly a part of this, and find some peace for Jordani.

Regis was so wrapped in his thoughts, that he did not notice the bootsteps coming down the hallway. He idly looked up at the suit or armor only to meet those cold, lavender eyes of his long lost friend. Regis instinctively ducked further behind the rose bush, though unable to pry his eyes off Drizzt. He only wore his leather trousers and a different, black tunic than the one he wore earlier, but there he was.

His lined face bore a calm scowl and his pace down the hallway indicated he was intent on his mission…to see someone perhaps. Regis sighed, thinking that maybe the drow was coming for him…and looking not too happy about it. For a fleeting moment, he was tempted to step out and attempt to step out and have the talk they needed to have.

No, Regis thought with a sad smile, now is not…

His line of thought was immediately severed, stepped on, and burned by the second figure coming into view beside Drizzt. Regis gasped and felt his body go cold as he saw the black hair, pale flesh, and cold, black eyes of Artemis Entreri.

The halfling rested his back against the wall, putting his arms around his trembling form as the full image permeated his being like a poison of cold: Drizzt Do'Urden and Artemis Entreri were walking along the corridor side by side, exchanging casual glances as they walked forward with a determined stride. Their body language was casual and they both walked with no mind of each other's presence.

In any other scenario, they would be chasing after each other, glaring at each other, or at least walking on opposite sides of the hallway. This was not the stride of two mortal enemies moving in the same direction: this was the stride of two casual acquaintances, or even…

The two stopped directly in front of his post, causing the halfling to crouch further behind the suit. Both of them looked forward, neither betraying any indication of the halfling's presence at all.

Regis then looked to the floor and saw what they were following; a menacing looking feline with spikes running down its back and a spike on the end of its tale. Drizzt and Entreri watched it intently as the cat, a female Regis could tell on more careful inspection, stopped in front of them, looked to sniff the air like a haughty noble for a second before turning and walking toward a door across the hallway.

The strange feline then scratched at the door, leaving long, brown marks on the black door before sitting and looking at it pleadingly. A few fingers of shadow wisped from the door as its color went from a glossy black to more of a soft, dark gray. The cat then stood up on her feet and walked directly through the door, a few shadows displaced and trailing out before she disappeared.

Entreri looked back at Drizzt, who smiled.

"This could be a trap," Drizzt said.

"When has that ever stopped you?" Entreri replied. "Besides maybe that demonic furball can prove herself useful…as something beside a filet marinated in Calish wine sauce."

"Is that a delicacy where you're from?" Drizzt asked.

Entreri merely smiled wickedly, turning around and putting his hand through the door. The assassin looked back at his companion noting his raised eyebrows of curiosity…and the shock of curly brown hair from the small halfling standing behind the rose bush. Maybe the little mouse would get caught in a big trap if he scurried forward. There was only one way to tell.

Entreri shrugged, looking forward and walking through the shadows with Drizzt following closely after him. Neither of them noticed the halfling across the hallway run after them and through the doorway. His small form was too fast and too easily hidden.

Drizzt and Entreri's attentions were instead locked on the expanse of space before them. It was a vast, dark garden under a black sky that seemed to create its own illumination.

A series of red marble stones in hexagonal shapes spread into a series of paths between the nearly black brush dotted with large, fully blooming bushes of dark purple lilacs, lupines, violets, and roses of black, red, purple and blue. A small fountain bubbled at the corners of the garden with one, grand fountain of black marble with water cascading down over the feet of a black marble erinyes; her wings spread and arms in a wicked gesture of incantation.

The two stood in awe, looking out at the seemingly endless expanse of garden as a cool breeze passed through the land.

"Nice landscaping," Drizzt said looking around.

It was likely this was extradimensional space, or perhaps a series of charms in the right place. Regardless, the results were still impressive.

Entreri rolled his eyes, growing tired of all the dramatics and finally wanting to get something accomplished. He swiftly walked forward down the path, looking around every corner and into every bush for any sign of ambush…or answer. Do'Urden followed a few steps behind him as they continued on down what seemed like a path that continued on for an acre.

At last his search was rewarded with the sight of a black figure with champagne-blond hair cascading down his back. He looked to be leaning over a one of the small fountains, bathing his bare arms in water which splashed in small droplets on his black leather vest. Entreri's pace slowed though grew more determined, much like a predator finding the best trajectory to leap on his prey.

He turned down a twist in the path, keeping half an eye on the cleric and half an eye on the large bush of black roses on the side of the path. He heard Do'Urden's footsteps growing heavier as the assassin grew closer to Mazn'reysla, looked again at the bush, and stopped dead in his tracks.

Drizzt nearly ran into him, though managed to save his footing in time. The human stood still, staring into the rose bush with an angry, yet concerned look. Drizzt carefully stepped around him, looking into the bush.

The front end was open, revealing a plush, black velvet Reverie couch with a mass of black and red pillows surrounding the lithe, black figure inside. Jarlaxle was in a cross-legged sit, leaning his bare back against the black pillows lining the inside of the small hutch. His eyes were closed, yet occasionally blinking. Entreri hoped he was no longer in a catatonic state, though his peaceful, relaxed expression made him look more in Trance than stupor.

Both his companions stared at him in an almost reverential silence, savoring every calm breath and relaxed blink from a person who was writhing in torture not too long ago. Now he looked at peace. His torso was bare and his legs were encased in a pair of loose pants of black silk. He looked more like Jarlaxle; a welcome sight indeed.

Entreri slowly turned around, unable to pry his eyes off his companion though knowing there was so much other business to attend to. He did catch the sight of Drizzt directly leaning inside the hutch, studying Jarlaxle like studying a unique breed of insect.

The drow knew his friend wasn't in Reverie. Jarlaxle usually kept his eyes closed while in Trance, now his eyes were casually blinking; like one trying to enter Trance save for the many thoughts weighing his mind. He looked forward and saw Entreri continue toward Mazn'reysla, before looking back at Jarlaxle and walking off…while leaning in and flicking the tip of his friend's ear as he left. Drizzt swore he saw a red eye lazily trail in his direction as its owner's calm face managed a smirk as the ranger followed the human.

Mazn'reysla's back was still to them, making no moves when Entreri stood behind him for a second, then put a hand on the center bone of his spine by his neck and pushed him forward into the basin. The cleric's arms landed in the water as his stomach hit the rim. He noticeably shivered, letting off a long, happy sigh as if savoring a back rub.

Entreri pulled his hand back, immediately becoming aware of the wet, sticky substance now in his palm. He looked down to see the pink and milky pus that usually oozed out of a day-old wound as it healed. The human looked up at the cleric's back and immediately seeing a round, pink circle on his ebony skin. The image was partially covered by his vest, though it glistened in the light that permeated from the sky.

"What in the Nine Hells," Drizzt said, noticing the mark and carefully stepping forward.

"The after marks of the warding disc," Mazn'reysla said calmly. "It hurt like the hells going in, though usually they are pulled off corpses and not live bodies. I consider myself fortunate."

"What was it doing there in the first place?" Entreri said, folding his arms and leaning sideways into Mazn'reysla's face.

"The archmage puts it on all free informants and assistants," the cleric said, ignoring the human and splashing water over what the assassin saw as a large, puffy bruise on the side of his face. "No one can scry on them or even attack them without his knowing. And he himself can examine their movements."

Entreri nodded, then grabbed his shoulder and pulled him around to face them. Drizzt saw the bruise that ran from his eye to his cheek and winced.

"Tell me, father," Entreri said, clutching his shoulder harder and leaning in his face, "how did you come to get such a trinket?"

Maz looked at the human, then Drizzt, before slowly bowing his head. Entreri grabbed his hair and slowly pulled his head up.

"He was searching for any more clues to advance our cause," an irritated female voice called from the side.

Drizzt and Entreri looked to the side and saw Ilzir, body now encased in a blue dress, her white hair in a braid down her back, and her pretty features nearly flushed with a slow burning rage.

"The Dark Weavings Bazaar," Maz said softly. "The Bregan D'aerthe, the flash of light, the archmage."

"_Vith_," Drizzt sighed. "Was the mercenary anyone we know?"

Maz looked at him with a smile.

"Valas was just doing his job," the cleric said.

"He was doing his job when Tzrik Jaelre was ripped apart," Drizzt groaned, swearing he would have a talk with the slimy scout soon.

Maz only gave his usual calm smile in response.

Drizzt looked at Entreri and motioned to him to let go of the priest's hair. Entreri gave him a patient glare, keeping his hand exactly where it was before looking at Ilzir.

"Gathering information?" the human said.

"In Sshamath," Drizzt said, "the home of our ur-priest, if you recall."

The ranger then looked at Ilzir, noting her still-irritated expression.

"I assume you two are acquainted," he said to the priestess and motioning back to the cleric.

"Sister Ilzir," Mazn'reysla said cheerily. "Her bread is made of flour, not mushrooms. It was very tasty after a tenday of walking with House Sshemlet guards at my tail."

"My order takes in wayward drow who have thrown off the Spider Queen's chains, especially those who came with instructions form our Masked Lord himself" she said, walking closer to Drizzt and pulling her small frame higher to reach his face. "My sisters and I found Mazn'reysla stumbling out of a derelict portal leading to another near Ched Nasad. He was skin and bones, fighting off a fever when we found him. Thirty years later he is now a high priest in our Lord's service."

"How lovely," Entreri said "Your order?"

"House Mourbasin," the priestess snapped, turning from Drizzt and walking toward Entreri. "Three hundred men and women, priests and priestesses, fighting the tyranny of Lolth for centuries. We rescue those she would devour and destroy those who would advance her vile cause. At over a hundred Houses in Menzoberranzan, fifty in Ched Nasad, and may others in other lands Lolth has held dominion have fallen due to our infiltration and influence."

"Ah, dissidents," Entreri said, unimpressed, "or perhaps petty terrorists."

"Our mission is accomplished regardless," Ilzir hissed. "Our Masked Lord himself even sought the shelter of our compound when he was reduced to mortal form during the Time of Troubles."

"When he wasn't carousing in Sshamath, that is," Mazn'reysla added with a snicker.

Ilzir managed a smirk and chuckled before turning her venom back on Entreri, who gave her a bored look.

"You mock your own blood, Artemis Entreri," she said, her smile becoming truly wicked.

"And what is that supposed to mean?" Entreri replied, his patience being tried even more.

Ilzir's smile widened. She slowly walked toward him, reaching out her hand and caressing his face. Entreri reacted with a patient blink, having some idea where this was going.

"You never met him, did you?" she asked.

"Velz?" Entreri asked. "Can't say I've had the pleasure."

"A shame, really," she said. "He so wanted to meet you."

Entreri blinked again while giving a strained smirk.

"He had 30 children by many different mothers; drow, surface elf, orc…human, all around his home in Mir. It is said there are close to 200 humans, orcs, drow, and surface elves in the area of the Lands of Intrigue who have at least a droplet of his blood and share his line. He tried to keep track of all his many, many grandchildren; a little hobby of his, yet a few didn't get the names of their latest paramours. The second he saw you in his travels, that handsome face looking like his but only with white skin and fur, combined with the physique of a drow and the weapon skills of a drow, he knew he found one lost line. And he was rather pleased, I might add."

Entreri nodded, laughed, and smacked her hand away from his face. He looked at Drizzt, who had folded his arms and took a casual stance behind Ilzir. The assassin tried to push out the images of the drow called Velz caressing his face in wonder. The situation was a tad bit unsettling.

"What position did Velz serve in your collective," Drizzt asked with a sigh.

Ilzir gave Entreri one last smile before turning around.

"He was our Patron," she said, a heaviness coming in her voice. "Velz Auken; a trader and priest, very well traveled and very savvy in the ways of commerce and spirit. He was born and raised in the Forest of Mir and in the faith of Vhaeraun, though he was a skilled traveler in the Underdark and well-versed in the ways of all deities; a truly wise, understanding, and deadly creature."

Entreri gave a reluctant nod. His entire life he knew of the thousands of dark elves who called Mir their home. It was mostly in rumor and through the many old-timers on the street who spoke of the ancient drow wars against Calimport. What deity they revered was never of any concern to anyone. The idea of being a blood relative to any of these drow wasn't a hard thing to imagine; it would in fact explain much, though Entreri was never one for blind trust of information.

"What of Hallia?" Entreri added, his grip on Mazn'reysla's hair loosening, though staying in place.

Ilzir gazed at Mazn'reysla for a second, her expression heavy.

"She was my cousin, our Matron," she said. "The one who lead the priestesses of House Mourbasin to shadows of Vhaeraun, orchestrating the fall of the House and the deaths of the Spider Bitch's few remaining servants. She led us out of Menzoberranzan and into our own series of unmapped passages to do our work.

"And both of them are dead," Drizzt said in a matter-of-fact tone.

Ilzir's small hand slowly balled into a tight fist at her side as she nodded her head.

"Both of them dead because of Moril…or, Nazir Klau'Thest," Entreri said.

Ilzir spit on the ground.

"Curse that name," she hissed. "Traitor! Hallia took pity on him when he crawled into our caverns; his flesh a misshapen mass that made him look more like a golem than a drow. He told us a priestess spent hours flaying, torturing, and raping him in a dozen different ways due to her own whim. He told us he was so scared of her he stayed in her House to coddle her, until he found the strength to leave Menzoberranzan. Hallia even made him the House archmage, not just because he was skilled, but because he was a model of Lolth's tyranny. Oh gods, Velz knew he was trouble and said so any chance he could get."

"So Moril was a member of your House," Drizzt said, this whole situation making more sense and looking worse all the time. "I assume you were unaware of his role as an ur-priest."

"We assume he too that role after he fled the House," Maz added, looking as if he could care less about Entreri's grasp on his hair.

"When did he flee?" Drizzt asked.

"Two days after the Time of Troubles came to an end," Ilzir said. "We saw his true faith when he beat inert mushroom stalk staff against the mortal form of our god nearly enough to knock him unconscious before we stopped him. Vhaeraun returned the favor twofold the day before he returned to Ellanith. Nazir vanished soon after."

"Now he's back, apparently" Entreri said.

"And you assume he murdered Hallia and Velz," Drizzt said.

Ilzir's head grew heavy as she strained her muscles. The grimace on her face was a cross between devastating sadness and maddening anger.

"We found her in her chambers," Ilzir said, her voice taking a growing crack. "There was no skin left on her, save her face…carved into that damn clown face that Nazir drew on every one of his parchments. A symbol of whimsical duality, he said; the monster behind the pleasing face. Gods she shared her bed with him once," Ilzir said with a sob, "she shared her trust, and he did things to her body it sickens me to speak of. And we found Velz the same way in the next room…covered in…and his face…that damn clown!"

Ilzir doubled over in sobs. Drizzt came up to her and gently rubbed her back.

"At least a hundred members of the House fell under his rather skilled prowess in…necromancy," Mazn'reysla added, conjuring raised eyebrows from both Drizzt and Entreri, "becoming his zombies with a few well-placed spells. They were so virulent and brutal, those remaining in the compound died or fled."

"Now he controls the compound?" Entreri said, liking this even less.

"Including the series of unmapped tunnels," Drizzt said. "Are there any more portals in that vicinity?"

"Thirty at least," Ilzir said through a lingering sob, slowly coming standing straight. "Encompassing all the major drow cities and making all less than a day's travel away."

"So we know how he and the rest of his lackeys are traveling so fast," Drizzt said. "They float through the Underdark, no one notices them coming until they attack. Where is the main compound located?"

"It's difficult for an outsider to locate," Ilzir said. "Though between Sshamath and the Giant's Chalice is a good estimate."

"Is that close to the Giant's Run Mountains?" Entreri asked.

Drizzt paused then groaned.

"Under the Giant's Run is Carnheim, a realm of undead Stone Giants who do not tolerate visitors."

"If Moril is actually a necromancer, maybe he found a use for them," Entreri said.

"Or Gromph Baenre found a convenient use for us," Drizzt growled, the realization sinking in slowly. "The map was of his making and he was searching for Moril for whatever reason."

"You wouldn't suspect he would send you all on a chase to some random point on the map, do you?" Maz said with a smile.

Drizzt and Entreri looked at each other. Entreri rolled his eyes and groaned, feeling a total fool for not realizing it earlier.

"So we were fodder, or bait," he said.

"With such a juicy little drow at the end of that hook," Maz added.

Drizzt and Entreri gave him a pained look.

"I suppose Jarlaxle's existence is to draw out nasty creatures," Entreri said. "Though odds are Moril knows who he is."

Maz gave him a feral grin. Drizzt fell back a few steps, wanting to stay as far out of the blast radius as possible; he had a good feeling what was coming given the situation.

Maz looked at Entreri thoughtfully, slowly managing to lean in.

"Gromph's favorite flesh golem," he said. "Jarlaxle never told you about his heritage did he?"

Entreri raised an eyebrow, nodding his head for the cleric to continue. Maz leaned in further, whispering in his ear words Vhaeraun had told him last year. Entreri's features soured in disbelief as the cleric continued his story.

Ilzir's tear-streaked face slowly formed a smile as Drizzt took a few more steps back, reaching in his belt and taking out his clove pouch.

Mazn'reysla slowly leaned away from the human, who looked blankly out at the rest of the garden. He chewed his lower lip and slowly nodded, before pushing Mazn'reysla to the side with such a force that sprawled him on the grass with a cackle.

"You are a wonderful storyteller," Entreri said, leaning down to him, "though I'm a terrible listener since I don't believe a godsdamned word of it."

Drizzt poured a small amount of the cloves into the thin sheet of bark, rolling the tube and sticking the end into his mouth as he watched Mazn'reysla smile up at the assassin from the ground.

"Jarlaxle Baenre is more a conduit of divine energy than most mortals," the cleric said, prompting Entreri to throw his hands up with a hard sigh. "And he is the chaos agent of the goddess who ripped Moril's flesh off. He is the perfect flesh puppet for his whims, the perfect bait Gromph could set out to trap a powerful being for his own use. Though Moril now possesses more power than he can handle and it tears at his ego, hence why he ran with his tail between his legs the second he realized that."

"Though he is going to be dragged back here kicking and fucking screaming to clean up his mess," Drizzt added, taking the clove out of his mouth for a second before putting it back in, lighting the tip, and shaking out his match while taking a long draw.

"Of course," Mazn'reysla said, looking up to see Entreri still glowering down at him.

"A third-born sacrifice?" Entreri said through gritted teeth, his voice steadily raising. "The third-born son of Matron Baenre? How in the Nine Flaming Hells do you expect me to buy that?"

"Because I said so," a voice called from behind.

Drizzt and Entreri snapped their heads back to see Jarlaxle casually standing directly behind Drizzt and taking a long draw from the clove that his younger companion no longer had in his hand.

Ilzir walked over to Mazn'reysla, putting a hand down and helping him to his feet. Drizzt and Entreri simply stared at their companion in a thankful, awkward surprise. Neither knowing what to say or do, only their expressions communicating a silent gladness to see him alive.

Jarlaxle carefully eyed both of them, his worn face looking tired, yet completely alert. He patted Drizzt on the back while walking to Entreri. He put his hands on his shoulders, the smoke trail from his clove floating into Entreri's face and stinging his eyes, though the assassin barely noticed.

"Congratulations," the mercenary said. "You aren't the only member of the Former Corpse Club here, don't look so stunned."

He gently pushed him back, taking another draw and walking back to Drizzt.

"Are you staying conscious for us a little longer?" Drizzt asked.

Jarlaxle gave him an annoyed look.

"I'll see what I can do," he replied in a strained tone.

"So what of our mission," Entreri asked, pushing so many horrible and confounding thoughts from his mind for at least a second. "If you haven't already heard, our employer backed out. I am sure we can find many more takers for Moril's head, but…"

"But our course continues as planned," Jarlaxle said. "With one, notable exception."

Drizzt and Entreri looked at him in anticipation as he took another draw, blowing out a smoke ring in the process.

"We don't need to keep him alive," he said, "a change that I welcome with all my heart. I am sure you gentlemen share the same sentiment."

The feral grins from his two companions warmed his cold soul.

----------------

A small burn in Regis' palm finally woke him out of the horrified stupor he had entered since the moment he entered the garden.

Gradually, he looked down at his hand to see it covered in blood; the thorns from the rose bush he had been carelessly clinging on to in the past few minutes still embedded in his flesh. Slowly, he opened his hand, freeing it of the thorns and clenching it again to stop the ooze of blood and go back to his horrified state.

Regis stared at Drizzt, then at Entreri, then at the half-clad Jarlaxle. The blond-haired, masked drow in sitting up on the grass was only another sight that made this all too real; though he was only a side factor separate from the three in front of him.

Drizzt was part of them now.

Regis took a few deep breathes at the horrible realization. Drizzt Do'Urden, a former man of goodness, a hero who fought against these villains now stood beside them.

He should have known this could happen, he thought frantically, remembering the horrible day in Bryn Shander when Drizzt stood before the council and called Entreri and Jarlaxle heroes for their efforts against the robbers who killed Catti-brie. Drizzt had been labeled a murderer for being in their mere presence…and being a drow who gave the town a reason to scorn him at last…and gave Regis himself a convenient object of scorn to take his mind off Catti-brie's murder.

A soft sob escaped the halfling's lips. All Drizzt's friends had practically abandoned him and he turned to the only two individuals he had any kind words for after that horrible day; two cold-blooded killers.

Another sob came out at another realization; where was the scrimshaw pendant of the unicorn's head Regis had given him so long ago?

He prayed to Tymora, to Mielikki, to every goodly god in the universe that Drizzt's casual conversation regarding Vhaeraun was only in passing and he had not…

_All of them saved my life, healed my wounds, made me think a little differently about some of my kin._

Regis buried his head in his hands and quietly wept at the remembrance of those words.

And here Drizzt was, discussing how Moril wronged Vhaeraun and how they all were going after him. Just like Jordani was going after Moril in the name of Tymora.

Regis stopped caring about how hard he wept now.

He didn't care about the sound of footsteps coming in his direction.

He didn't care about the pair of blood red eyes in his face as the priestess grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and picked him up.


	19. Old Ghosts

**The Lesser Evil: Hooligan's Holiday**

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of R.A. Salvatore/Wizards of the Coast ©. I don't own them; I'm just examining all their possibilities.

Author's Note: I know, it took me a long time to get this donw. I blame a lot of not so nice reality for much of that as well as my bored imagination trying toget through this. It is a little long, though the end is indeed near.

**Chapter 19: Old Ghosts**

"Well, well, well, what have we here," Entreri said with a sneer, keeping his eye on the small, struggling figure in Ilzir's hand.

Regis managed to look up once and catch look at Entreri's cold eyes in an instant. That one instant was enough to start him thrashing violently while a few muddled curses spitting past his lips, his face plastered with a wrenching look of fear and panic.

Drizzt felt sick, his stomach lurching as he stared at the halfling with hands on his waist and tips of fingers tapping against the pommels of his scimitars. A part of him only tasted blood, a feeling making him thirsty for it. Another part of him seemed to crawl into a ball and weep. Regardless, he was fixed to the floor and trying not to meet Regis' gaze, though it was unavoidable.

The halfling's eye's met with his, a gaze of desperation, denial, hurt, and anger all boring through his soul and pointing a million fingers. He could see Jarlaxle's incredulous look from the corner of his eye, which made him hotter with rage. This little insect was unwelcome in every way.

"I found him crouching in a rosebush," Ilzir said, practically slamming him onto the ground with a yelp though she kept a firm hand on the back of his neck. "It looks like he was well enough to follow us in here."

Entreri walked forward with a creeping grin.

"You look like a dog sniffing for his master, halfling," the assassin said, leaning down and provoking a flinch and a whimper for Regis. "I'm sorry to say this, friend, but your greasy master is dead. We killed him."

Regis only whimpered more as his bright brown eyes were now surrounded by a field of bright, wet red as they looked down to avoid the horrible man in front of him. He did manage to look up, seeing a piece of Entreri's face while looking right at Drizzt. Drizzt's face was locked in a look of disgust, though he blamed him for nothing.

Entreri grabbed his curly hair and pulled it up violently, provoking another yelp and a crying sob.

"His master almost killed you after, I am sure, he led you into a little trap," the assassin said looking up at Drizzt. "If I was you, I would perhaps take of a couple more fingers," he grabbed Regis' hand and gently ran a finger over the two stubs that were the fingers he cut off almost twenty years ago. Regis started sobbing. "Though I know you prefer your justice a little more…forward. What say you, Master Drizzt? Do you wish to solve this problem, or shall I?"

Drizzt looked down at the trembling, sobbing halfling. Regis was practically a puddle on the ground, the grasp of the human was like a brand of hot iron rubbing against his skin. Fear had washed over his entire, goodly form and Drizzt stood and savored every second.

The image of Regis staring at him in horror after he beat the living hells out of Kemp of Targos was emblazoned in the drow's mind as were the words the halfling said before that incident.

"_You nearly met your death by their hands, now you call them heroes?"_

They were words that scraped against his very being, words delivered by a creature he would have willingly died for in the past. Instead he ignored him after Catti-brie was murdered and lectured him about who he should and should not esteem based on their reputations.

Here the little bastard was now in the hands of the man he feared the most, overtaken by fear as the look in his eyes that showed the beginnings of resignation. He knew he was going to die and any hope of rescue by his mighty elf friend was fleeting.

Drizzt tried hard not to smile, though the corner of his mouth turned up ever so slightly.

"Let him go, Artemis," Drizzt said. "He's my problem; I will deal with him myself."

Entreri gave him an amused smirk while cocking an eyebrow. He pushed the halfling forward into Drizzt's hands with the drow's fingertips digging into his shoulder. He could see Regis' pleading gaze in his peripheral vision, though he paid more notice to Entreri's amused look and Jarlaxle's eyeroll as he took a long draw from the clove stick he stole from Drizzt.

"Is there any place we could talk privately?" Drizzt asked the two clerics, who looked just as intrigued by this situation as Entreri.

"The trellis in the back of the garden will return you back to the hallway," Ilzir said, pointing back.

Drizzt looked down at Regis, whose gaze pleaded to him even more. Drizzt then looked at Ilzir, then Mazn'reysla, who gave him a patient nod that communicated much. The ranger nodded and turned back for the black, vine covered trellis while dragging Regis along with him.

Regis made no attempts at struggle, though Drizzt could feel his muscles trembling and swore a few whimpers escaped his lips. That only angered the drow more, making his grip stronger and his dragging more forceful to the point where he could feel the halfling's heels dragging against the stones of the floor.

He reached the trellis soon after, walking straight through the shadow covering it. A chilling sensation later, he was dragging Regis through the hallway of the Temple by the Depths of Despair.

"Please Drizzt, by whatever mercy is still in your heart," Regis whispered in a heavy sob.

Drizzt winced for a moment, dragging the halfling with even more force as his stomach gave another lurch. A short ways down the hall, he came once again to his chambers and rapped the black wood with the knuckle of his index finger in the pattern the Mother Superior had taught him before. The door opened and Drizzt dragged Regis into the lush suite, closing and latching the door.

Regis' trembling became more violent and he stopped briefly in his tracks with a mass of sobs before Drizzt practically picked him up and spread open the curtains leading to the small, stone patio outside their room.

Despite the lingering shadows around the edges of the ornately carved granite railing, a ward against intruders, the sky glowed with an array of stars and the lights of Saerloon underneath.

The salty air lingering with the tragedy of the streets wafted to greet the drow's sensitive nose. He gave a long sigh, letting go of Regis with a shove, and walking to the railing while keeping half an eye on the trembling intruder. He wanted to kill him, deliver him to a slow, screaming death while showing him the inside of his plump belly.

Instead he allowed himself to close his eyes for a second as he leaned on the railing and took some deep breaths. All he truly desired was for his rage to not tear him apart as much as he wanted to tear up Regis. It would only bring him to a more vulnerable state that was more dangerous to him than to his former and unlamented companion. His only goal now was to calm himself and try to keep everything in perspective.

A small trickle of tension left his body as he slightly opened his eyes and looked out at the city. He could hear the clops of hooves and the occasional scream of a murder victim or a dying unfortunate. For once, these sounds were more background noise and not music…save for Regis' trembling sighs that had gone from sobs to the breathing of a wrecked man.

Drizzt gave a long look back at the halfling, who kept his eyes to the ground save for the one moment they meekly turned up and met the lavender eyes of his long lost friend. It was a lingering moment, Regis savoring those lavender orbs while the cruelty behind them sucked the former life and sparkle right out. Drizzt saw Regis' red eyes and noted the puffiness and black circles of despair etched on his face. His former companion looked drawn, older, perhaps as scorned by the universe as he.

Drizzt sighed again, reaching into his belt and producing his clove pouch. He removed one sheet of bark and poured out a small amount of the pungent brown herb. He typically didn't smoke this much in one night, but he had one earlier and Jarlaxle had stolen his previous one so this was not excessive, it was only a lesser evil after all.

It was a thought that made his mouth twitch into a smile for an iota of a second as he rolled the bark, licking one end and sealing the tube. He put one end in his mouth, striking a match against the railing and lighting the tip as more tension eased from his body.

"Funny seeing you smoking," Regis said meekly.

Drizzt took a draw while snapping a curdling glare onto the halfling. Regis flinched once again, though with less fear and more resignation. He was indeed growing weary.

Drizzt stared at him for a second, noticing him keeping his gaze to the ground though occasionally look up tentatively. The drow took another slow draw with a cold chuckle, waving out the match and blowing out a long, luxurious stream.

"I've taken up a few bad habits in the past year," he sneered, flicking an ash over the railing and looking out at the city in a sudden moment of calm.

He took another drag and turned around, seeing Regis staring up at him a little bolder than previously. The halfling's gaze was tired; a mix of sadness, anger, and a small hint of relief all revealed in one glare.

"Funny seeing you away from the Hall," Drizzt replied in a calm, yet biting tone. "I figured you would still be by Bruenor's side for moral support."

Regis cringed, before calming slightly with a sigh. Drizzt knew where this was going though he was curious to see how.

"I decided to go traveling," Regis said, his once trembling voice much stronger. "The Hall was getting a little…stifling."

"I can imagine," Drizzt said, feeling his stomach drop even further. A small voice of warning in his mind told him not to press further, though another, quieter voice begged for him to receive final answers. "So tell me, did you leave in celebration, lament, or silence?"

Regis moved his lips as if to speak, though the words failed him. Drizzt took a draw and continued staring at him, patiently waiting for him to continue. Regis looked down once again, though his heavy head came up and faced Drizzt directly with a look of angry determination.

"Silent lament," the halfling replied, his voice noticeably stronger though still cracked. "Bruenor has dedicated himself to fighting the orcs. King Obould and his forces have diminished greatly through constant attacks, though so has Bruenor's soul. He is hollow, putting on the armor of a warrior to hide his destroyed will. Cracks are forming day by day."

Drizzt kept his cold expression, though his blood boiled. It was obvious Regis was trying to play him and the effort was far from appreciated, though it was expected.

"What of Wulfgar?" the drow asked, taking another tense puff, the warning in his brain only becoming louder.

Regis looked at him with a hint of incredulity for a moment as if to scream "Why don't you care?"

Drizzt, however, wondered why he did.

"He joined his father, fought by his side, though his battle passion became a bit more…enthusiastic for my liking," the halfling said tiredly. "It got to the point where he and Bruenor were screaming at each other everyday; Wulfgar wanted to see blood, Bruenor lacked passion for anything. It got to the point where I felt they had the matter under control and I…" he gave a long hard sigh that Drizzt took for both genuine and embellished, "I felt I needed to just…get out for a while."

Drizzt smirked, trying to digest the full situation. If the halfling told true, all three of them were taking to their usual coping methods. He gave a small chuckle that caused Regis to wince, a chuckle that turned into a small cackle. Regis closed his eyes for a moment and looked on the stone where a tear dripped before him. The halfling then managed a stiff grimace that almost looked like a smile.

"Tail firmly planted between legs as always," he muttered, a part of him still not believing he said it and another lauding him for it. "I see nothing has changed with you. Though I am sure both Wulfgar and Bruenor are drowning their sorrows in bottle or a mug respectively and you are too kind to say otherwise."

"Grief, if you don't mind my saying, does different things to different people," he said.

Regis knew he should go no further though if he was to die at Drizzt's hands he would die with some understanding of what happened to his old friend. "And I suppose different folks do things to salve it or cleanse it. I see you have taken to drowning your sorrows in blood."

A lithe form leapt to his side and crouched to his height, invoking a choking yelp as those cold, yet still intense lavender eyes seared through every ounce of his flesh.

Drizzt wanted to see him tremble, wanted to savor his fear though the small portion of his mind that was quiet earlier now screamed at him to leave his old companion alone. It was a sensation that only made him angrier. He kept in his crouch and leaned in Regis face while blowing a thick cloud of smoke, provoking a sharp cough from the halfling.

"What does grief do to people, old friend?" the drow sneered. "Since you seem to be ever the expert, please give me some explanation."

Regis whimpered, every muscle in a state of spasm with every sob. He managed to calm his sobbing with a few deep, gasping breaths while craning his neck to look directly at Drizzt's eyes and the lavender fire that burned hot from those orbs. Drizzt wanted to tear him apart, though something deep inside was holding him back.

The drow grunted and pushed Regis aside with one finger as he stood, provoking a yelp that was music to his ears…dissonant, scraping music.

The halfling's gasps melted in a series of heavy breaths.

"A weak man can turn his grief into a weapon," Regis said, his voice raised in a weak yell. "A decent man can channel it, use a great injustice turn it into fire for making sure such crimes never occur. A weak man can let his anger overtake him and allow himself to play into the hands of villains until he is a villain himself."

Regis knew he was a dead man. He braced himself for the final blow following his words though they sounded as angry and hollow as he felt. Instead Drizzt leaned against the railing, taking another puff and staring at him with an impatient, yet anticipating stare.

"Nice speech," he said in an annoyed tone, truly becoming tired with the turn this conversation was taking. Regis' helpless look was reward enough. "I know you believe every word of it. Now, tell me about Jordani. Was he another goodly hero who was worthier of your presence than our former companions, or was he just a convenient and more capable creature to sponge off? Maybe someone who would be too stupid to recognize you as more of a liability to those who should have left you rot in the hands of those you pissed off."

It was clear by his melted expression that his will was fading every second. Drizzt stared at him, smiled, and laughed. He had the little bastard.

"Though I had some goodly friends," Regis replied, though his words were just as hollow. "Friends I would have died for."

"Naturally," Drizzt said, eating up the gaze of apprehension. "Keep telling yourself that and perhaps you may keep gaining more."

Regis stared at him blankly, his skin turning a brighter shade of red and felt a little braver in the possible presence of some real answers.

"What really happened to you in Cormanthor, Drizzt?" Regis gasped. "How did you come to this state here now? Are they making you do this mission, putting you in the slavery of…"

"I'm asking the godsdamned questions here," Drizzt snapped, provoking a yelp and a wince from the halfling. "You're very lucky I'm not twisting your neck like a bird right now after the shit you just put me through. Now how the Hells did you end up with Jordani Pilazi? Keep your mouth shut to me and I'll have my other companion ask that question, and I doubt he will be as patient with you."

Regis stared at him, his lower lip trembling in fear as his eyes were wide with incredulity.

"Yes, your companion…" Regis knew he should hold his tongue now based on the twitch in Drizzt's leg muscles he got before springing. "Artemis Entreri, companion of the great Drizzt Do'Urd…"

The name was caught in a scream from the halfling's mouth as he was grabbed by the neck in one second and felt his legs dangling over the railing in the air as a pair of cold lavender eyes bored through him before he even knew what was happening. His whimpers only became louder as he looked down to see himself dangling over the city with buildings and people looking very small underneath him. He yelped a few times when he realized the only thing keeping him in the air was a slender, ebony hand around his throat hard enough to keep him up and barely breathing.

Drizzt kept a calm gaze, though he wanted to smell the little bastard's blood so bad it mad him ache. His arm stretched Regis down further, causing him to squirm more, his huge brown eyes watering with tears as his face was one state of pleading. Drizzt looked down at the small garden directly below, aiming him over the statue of a black angel in the fountain, finding the sharpest branch on the weeping willow to drop him on, or just slam him against the stone in the balcony and render his soft body to an even softer pulp.

For some reason, his arm stayed still while he merely stared at his old companion. He wanted to throw him, though every time he tried to bring himself to do it, the moment passed. His mind went blank, seeing only the pleading creature in his grasp.

"Please, Drizzt Do'Urden, please," Regis whimpered. "I know you are not a monster, I could never believe that is what you have become."

Drizzt stared at him, his nerves were ice. He put his clove on the side of the railing and put his other hand down to shift the halfling's pudgy weight.

"Drizzt Do'Urden is dead, little friend," he said calmly. "He died the night he was banished from Icewind Dale with all eyes accusing him, all gazes taunting him. The goodly hero destroyed himself that very night, though someone else rose from his ashes."

He cocked his head and raised an eyebrow as Regis' whimpers stopped, replaced by a look of profound sadness.

"I'll leave you with that," Drizzt continued. "If I so much as see a dwarf, elf, or any other one of Bruenor or Alustriel's agents, they will have their entrails ripped from their stomachs while they still live and I will tell them it is all because of you. Then I will find you and I will make you eat off their corpses. Don't doubt me for one second."

Regis closed his eyes and nodded, a tear streaming down his cheek as Drizzt swung him out and let go of his throat.

The halfling let out a scream as he fell, looking up and meeting Drizzt's cold eyes once more before meeting the black eyes of the human standing in the shadows behind him and seeing Entreri give one mocking wave before he fell further.

"I'm so sorry," he whimpered, hoping Drizzt noticed though he doubted it would bring him back from his black state.

He yelped again as his small body bounced off the branches of a small weeping willow on the grounds, breaking the momentum of his fall before he floated into the shallow water of the pool. His side met the floor with a slam, sending a sudden fire through his muscles that subsided for a second due to the cool water and the adrenaline coursing through his veins. Regis panted, before opening his eyes and realizing he was still alive and likely only bruised. The adrenaline hit him and put him on his feet, sprinting out of the pool and into the street with a scream.

Drizzt picked his clove back up and took one last draw, watching Regis sprint through the sparse crowd, bumping into a scraggly merchant who tried to hit him with a stick and a horse, which shifted and neighed in annoyance. Some passers by would swear at him to watch where he was going, where a few would merely glance and return to their business if they did that.

Then there was that one man whose gaze was firmly fixed on the balcony. Drizzt noticed the human from the corner of his eye and waited a second before looking down and feeling sick again.

He remembered the short, black hair and salt-and-pepper beard from Scardale and his black plate armor bearing a clenched fist with green rays streaming from the fingers made any denial impossible. The blackguard Wenthias was leaning against a wall apart from the crowd. Drizzt nodded his head in recognition and the blackguard merely smiled, looking in the direction where the halfling ran.

This was the last thing Drizzt needed right now, though it got even worse. Bane's champion turned to his side as a mangy human in green leather armor came beside him. Wenthias whispered something in Fielder's ear, though Drizzt did not want to take the time to read lips. Instead he looked up in the air for any beholders while scanning the crowd for any other of the blackguard's pets. Sure enough, one eye tyrant was floating along a building a few hundred feet away, though neither its central eye nor its eyestalks were pointing in Wenthias' direction. Maybe it was just a passer by. Maybe it was waiting for a command.

He looked down again seeing Fielder take a step ahead of Wenthias and wave politely at him. Drizzt gave a stiff smirk while Fielder's smile was practically a maniacal beam. His hand still stayed in the air, fingers waving. Drizzt was about to duck and pick up a large rock from the side of the balcony when he suddenly realized the ranger's fingers were not casting a spell but signing in drow hand code.

_Well met, champion,_ Fielder signed.

_Well met, _Drizzt stiffly signed back, wanting nothing to do with either of them and being in no mood for civility. He did vow that he would find out how the son of a bitch learned his hand code and smash the fingers of his teacher. _What the fuck do you want?_

_Maybe a little cooperation on all our parts, _Fielder signed. _We all obviously have a common cause, and let's face it; we're going to find you anyway, so we might as well all play nice. My friend here wants you to know that little incident in the Dragonmere with the swooping devils wasn't his call or even Bane's call for that matter. It was Moril's._

_So your master admits his little brat fucked up and deserved to die?_ Drizzt signed, really not liking where this was going. The fact Fielder was volunteering this much information at this moment was too much to be trusted or even tolerated.

Wenthias gave a stiff chuckle, showing his understood the sign though didn't use it himself. He leaned back in Fielder's ear and whispering. Fielder nodded and turned back to Drizzt.

_My friend wants you to know the kid always was a fuck-up, _Fielder signed. _Or, as he puts it, was too vain and selfish, keeping his own priorities and not Bane's. He deserved to be punished for that, though he didn't stay dead long. _Drizzt raised an eyebrow, now knowing why the blackguard wanted his son's horn and the reasons were probably not sentimental._ Little Toamy isn't traveling with us anymore obviously, he needs some time to, _Fielder laughed and idly waved his hand before continuing, _get his priorities straight. Though Linuin is still part of our merry pranksters. I think he's hiding in the alley, fucking coward. Nice work though._

_Now getting back to the point, you assholes want to join with us? _Drizzt signed back, this whole encounter getting on his already frayed nerves. _Or should I say, find us a convenient meat shield in your cause to Bane or Malar, or maybe use us as sacrifices. _

Wenthias closed his eyes and shook his head, the words on his lips were obvious though his voice was too distant to be heard; "So little credit."

_Hey we're offering you our services, shit for brains, that doesn't come easily_, Fielder continued, rolling his eyes. _You want the rest of your party to become a bunch of babbling idiots like that plumed darkling you have chasing after you, that's your affair. You want to rip apart Moril and eat his soul, we can help you with that._

Sir Wenthias stared at Drizzt, giving another smug smile that made the drow ranger want to smash in his face. The blackguard turned to Fielder and said a few undecipherable words.

_It's okay, friend_, Fielder signed_, we know where to find you and you can probably tell where to find us. _

Malar's champion gave a mocking wave before he and Wenthias walked away from the wall. Wenthias gave one last look at Drizzt, then looked in the direction where Regis took off before the pair blended in with the crowd.

Drizzt twisted the end of his clove and threw it off the balcony. He looked back into the evening crowd to see no signs of Regis or the Brute Squad. This was all becoming too much.

He paced back to the door, the churning in his stomach becoming a little more obvious as he considered all the possibilities.

Regis knew he was alive and, predictably, shoved his entire existence in his face. The there was the sudden appearance of Sir Wenthias, who was either willing to make a deal or getting ready to feed him to his beholders. Bane was a god of honor as well as irredeemable evil; though Drizzt knew he should expect nothing less.

After all, why should there be honor among evil bastards? It was a question he had been asking himself for the past year and a half. And here he was: the terrible Rogue Prince, the anointed champion of Vhaeraun, and not even able to kill a pathetic halfling who nearly caused his death in the first place…and had been one of his truest friends, or so he thought.

He crossed the threshold and into his room with an angry sprint. He wanted to get some wine or the hardest liquor on the still-untouched snack table, though his legs and churning stomach carried him to his velvet bedroom and into his pristine, black marble bathing room. He finally came to the black marble basin that was soon anointed with the moist, beige remains of his stomach from the past day in one choking heave.

Drizzt's hands clutched the side of the basin, trying not to study the mess inside lest it make him sicker, though the cramping in his stomach conspired with his gag muscle against him and sent the last remains of his dinner into the basin.

He finished, raising his head up and letting his muscles tremble a little and get his bearings back. His hot skin was then greeted by what felt like a cool cloth pressed against his face, though this was far from a courtesy. Drizzt opened his eyes and saw a waded-up wash cloth pressed clumsily against his skin before looking at the bemused look of the one who pressed it.

Entreri studied his face, not holding the cloth in any comfortable way though pressing it lightly enough so the drow would notice it. Drizzt glared at him and snatched the cloth out of his hand, laying it over the back of his neck; a sensation that lightened his mood considerably.

"You don't trust them," Entreri said, not hiding his enjoyment of this scene.

Drizzt needed no lecture for pushing himself beyond his own physical limits, for abusing himself physically and emotionally. The assassin actually found himself more amused at this turn than annoyed. He was getting too used to this.

"Not at all," the drow replied, though Entreri could hear the hesitation in his voice.

"Good," the human replied. "Though that does not mean they will not have their uses before this is over."

Drizzt smiled, hearing some validation for his thoughts. He looked over and saw the assassin with his arms crossed and giving him an intense glare. His eyes were incapable of showing any glee other than the malicious kind; a fact that only exhausted Drizzt instead of scaring or amusing him.

"The same goes for a certain halfling," Entreri said, looking at his companion with a smile and noting his flinch.

Drizzt's black skin was a shade of gray and he looked like he was ready to wretch again save for his own pride getting in the way. Entreri saw disgust etched across his companion's face, though he also saw the smallest hint of remorse as well. The assassin stared at him, raising an eyebrow.

This could mean anything with Drizzt given his instability, though he couldn't blame him. He remembered feeling the same after seeing Dondon Tigerwillies for the first time in six years; his old companion's bloated form sickened him for more reasons than he could understand.

Drizzt had his own ways of dealing with things, Entreri learned gradually. He was indeed a child in many respects and the best thing the human could do was let him learn the hard way, which was the most caring thing of which he was capable.

"You never thought you could go the rest of your existence without meeting some old ghosts, did you?" the assassin asked stiffly.

Drizzt merely grimaced, closing his eyes and trying to sort out his million conflicting thoughts.

"You will see him again, I am sure of it," Entreri said. "Will he lead an army against you, I cannot rule out that possibility since you left him alive."

The human savored his companion's disgusted look, though the disgust was more at himself, a feeling Entreri knew too well. The drow was once again a mirror of himself, though a mirror he could study at a more comfortable distance.

"I couldn't kill him," Drizzt said. It was an admission of weakness that could earn him a dagger to the heart, though for some odd reason he felt comfortable sharing this with someone he considered a friend.

He looked at Entreri, who merely gave him an amused smile.

"I noticed," the human said plainly. His gaze was calm, betraying no disappointment or anger, only bemusement which irritated Drizzt more and widened the assassin's wicked smile. "You actually displayed some self-control. I am truly shocked."

"I'm sure," Drizzt said dourly.

"For whatever reason you saw no need to kill the halfling and let him go," Entreri continued. "Let's leave it at that for now. Wracking your brain with all the reasons will only aggravate you and make things more difficult for all of us."

Drizzt nodded, seeing the logic in his friend's words of encouragement or warning.

"Most likely he will haunt your steps for the rest of the journey because he will never accept that you are that much of a bastard even though you really are," Entreri continued. "He's too much of a coward to go against you and sees no reason why he should. You know that."

"Because I am such a bastard," Drizzt said with a stiff smile. "Or am I? What would you do if I do go after Moril head on? I kill him fighting at Regis' side in the name of goodness. Then I turn on you at last in my renewed fervor for life and purity."

"You won't," Entreri replied without missing a beat. "You are too far beyond that point now, trust me."

Drizzt snickered, having his answer. Entreri was right, as much as his small amount of sentimentality go to him, he could not even imagine finding Regis and returning to Mithril Hall. That life was dead and not lamented in the least.

"We have a clown to catch," Entreri said. "I suggest we find if our clerics have any true use."

------------

Jarlaxle couldn't help but feel like he was being treated like an invalid.

Granted the clerics were kind enough to speak with the Mother Superior about arranging a little training session for the previously incapacitated mercenary, for which Jarlaxle was more than appreciative.

Granted he was given a black quarterstaff instead of even a pair of practice swords, though he could live with that. He was even given a Dark Moon monk, a young yet skilled half-elf named Iveloes, as a sparring partner.

It was an excellent opportunity to hone his skills with a weapon with which he was unfamiliar, yet could wield, against an opponent trained in a fighting style that relied more on self-control and inner knowledge than pure skill and instinct alone.

Jarlaxle tried to tap into that rare state of inner peace as he took another running leap at the wiry Iveloes, who merely stood with his black quarterstaff in hand. The second Jarlaxle reached him with his own staff raised; Iveloes met his weapon with a clang of wood that could have been wind chimes.

The tip of his staff rushed against the center of the weapon wielded by the half-elf in black cotton trousers and black silk vest. Iveloes, whose tan skin and long, blond hair pulled back in a chignon gave away his sun elven heritage, merely pulled away the moment the drow's staff tapped; giving him enough momentum to swing it around and bring it behind Jarlaxle's legs.

Iveloes' main advantage was self-control and perfect timing, though Jarlaxle's natural agility and speed saved him. He easily hopped over the staff and swung for the half-elf's back. Jarlaxle immediately cursed himself for the move was too predictable. Iveloes merely felt the beginning pressure against his shoulders before his muscles tightened, braced the full brunt of the blow, and slammed back against the drow's staff.

Jarlaxle redoubled his efforts, moving the staff before his partner's body blocked the mobility of his arm. Using his speed once more, he pulled the end of the staff under Iveloes' groin, enough to bruise his more sensitive area and send him flying to the floor with a yelp.

Predictably, the half-elf tried to hop over it, though Jarlaxle quickly moved the other end to become tangled in his legs. Iveloes fell to the ground in a heap before immediately coming to his knees and facing the drow. Jarlaxle pointed his staff at the half-elf's neck expecting one more move.

Instead Iveloes rose, ignoring the staff, and gave a low bow before walking away from him.

Jarlaxle was enraged. He wanted to find ways to impale the little bastard with the blunt end of that staff, though he stayed still. He gave his own bow, yet Iveloes acknowledged nothing. He only turned to a spot in the black stone wall, pushed a stone, and his form was bathed in shadows that took him through the wall.

Jarlaxle was left alone, looking down at his bare feet and the sweat that beaded down his bare torso as he only breathed and tried to take in some of the adrenaline and blissful fatigue that came with such a workout…though he knew he could have done better; he should have done better.

Jarlaxle couldn't help but feel he was being treated like an invalid. The clerics gave him practice time, but with a kid and a half-elf at that who was still able to predict his moves and defeat him. Instead of leaving him on the ground, Iveloes even gave up at the end of a staff, giving that match to the mercenary or shoving it in his face. The clerics also would not let him have even practice swords. Instead they gave him a big stick and let his ass be handed to him by a kid.

The drow took a deep sigh, putting the end of his staff to the stone floor with a hollow thud. Even his thoughts were whining; this was never good. He paced the floor of the practice hall, noting the various banners telling Shar's stories a well as diagramming various tactics of the Dark Moon Monks, though these were a gallery showing anyway. He doubted even the teachers would be willing to part with their most effective tactics. Secrecy was the way of Shar after all.

Despite the kid gloves treatment he thought he was receiving, Jarlaxle knew something below the surface was bothering him even more: the realization that he had been in this room with that brat for too long.

Drizzt had left with…Regis (another factor he didn't even want to consider) while Entreri followed close behind. Since then, he had woken a little more from his "Reverie," if it even could be called that, to take in a little deer meat and spring water before being sent in here. That all had to be around an hour ago, he thought, clutching his staff a little tighter at the thought.

Unless Drizzt was taking his time ripping the halfling apart, odds were good that more important discussions were taking place behind his back; or behind Moril's back if that was the case.

And here he was playing with a half-elf kid of barely 100 while the important people were having big discussions away from his hearing.

Jarlaxle sighed hard, walking over to a small marble basin in the wall with a fountain for momentary freshening up after practice. He put the staff against the wall and dipped his hands into the cool water before dunking his bald head into the basin and running the water over his flesh.

He could almost see the steam wafting from his body as the cool water calmed his temper considerably. The mercenary rested his elbows on the side of the basin and stayed still save for his slender fingers plicking the stream of water while feeling the toxins drain from as body; or as much as they could under the circumstances.

A little meditation is healthy, he thought to himself. What is not healthy is dwelling on the various problems weighing you down.

He managed a smile at the thought, a truly unique idea given the situation.

After all, his stream of consciousness continued, why dwell on how you have been used as a tool by various people for various reasons; whether as that child tavern whore you were in the Braeryn to the supposedly powerful mercenary you eventually became.

His hands clenched tighter on the side of the basin as he tried to push out the thoughts and memories that made him feel helpless; thoughts and memories that always came when he felt at his lowest points. He almost felt he was that small child with the silky white hair and innocent face who washed tables in a greasy bar between being taken out back by its patrons.

Is that what he still was; only now he wielded wealth and weapons? Is that why he could not rest unless he possessed his own little empire of fellow gutter snipes? Would every empire he could hold be like the one in Menzoberranzan gifted to him by his mother who showed her love by ripping his heart out before giving his bloody, infant corpse life in that vat of blood?

Was she truly showing love for the poor soul she conceived him with whose very body down to every piece of flesh was taken by her for her own whim? What was a child conceived by stolen seed that became a worthy gift to Lolth, who in turn returned him to life, though a cursed life as a minion of…

Jarlaxle relaxed his grip on the basin and took a few breathes. He couldn't be sure, though it was only now he was realizing his train of thought was too clear and uniformed to be his own. The tell-tale pressing against his brain was not there, though the messages and sensation was subtle enough to be obvious.

"Still trying to beat a dead rothé, are we?" he said aloud to the empty air, though he was sure his words were heard.

All he heard in return was a slight chuckle inside his head.

_You are wising up, _the familiar voice said.

A part of Jarlaxle was furious, though there was a bigger part of him merely annoyed as well as relieved that this was as far across the threshold Moril was getting…for now at least. The largest part of him was just too exhausted to care at this point.

_You are blocked out, _Jarlaxle thought back, _though obviously you can talk to me without barging in. Subtlety is indeed a skill. _

_A skill I still value contrary to popular belief, _Moril replied. _Though I admit I was a little harsh in our last few encounters._

_Yes, I consider trying to break my brain a little harsh_, Jarlaxle thought, clearly communicating his deep-seated rage.

_Once again, my apologies, _Moril said, communicating some level of sincerity. _I may have overreacted upon seeing you after all this time. I couldn't have merely presented you with the truth of your existence during our first meeting on that beach._

Jarlaxle gave a nervous laugh, looking around the room to make sure no one was witnessing this in person and make him look like a mad man.

_Presented me with the truth? _Jarlaxle thought, laughing and letting his back come to the wall. _You mean that little display of the mangled male and the infant? That was your way of telling me any truth?_

"You were certainly convinced when the presentation ended," a soft voice called from the side.

Jarlaxle carefully turned around and was face to face with a drow he had last seen in the pool of blood. Then, his skin was floating off, though here he was fully intact. His young face was handsome and perfectly framed by a mass of silky white hair strewn over his black Sorcere robes. His amber eyes gleamed with youthful cruelty.

He had seen that face somewhere and not in the ocean of blood. The young mage's face bore the glow of youth minus the hard lines that would build up over the next 300 years of poverty and triumph at the end of swords and daggers.

Jarlaxle rolled his eyes and sighed: he saw his own face though minus the harsh Baenre arch to his eyebrows that made every member of his line look perpetually vexed. But there was those same thin lips easily turned up into an unnerving smirk and that strong yet graceful nose he admired in every mirror.

"A flare for the dramatic, I see," the mercenary said dourly, though his reasoning was a quivering ball in a tiny corner of the Abyss by now.

"Obviously we have that in common," Moril, or Nazir said, throwing his arms wide with a laugh. "For the past 435 years I have seen you nothing but a parasite, Lolth's creation of a perfect agent of chaos from the flesh and blood of a male in the wrong place at the wrong time and under the wrong priestess."

Nazir's pristine ebony skin swiftly peeled off as his hair fell out, revealing the hideous visage Jarlaxle first saw on that beach on the banks of the Dragonmere. Jarlaxle did not wince or make any reaction. Instead he cocked an eyebrow as his growing exhaustion with the whole matter. Soon, the image wavered and Nazir was once again standing in front of him, fully whole with not a silky hair out of place.

"And what should this mean for me?" the mercenary asked. "Are you trying to destroy me, control me, or recruit me?"

"My energies have been taxed enough these last 435 years trying to find how to accomplish all three," Nazir said with a long sigh. "Though after this past battle, you have proven stronger than I gave you credit for. I am not a young man by any means and my energy and will can only go so far."

"So are you yielding?" Jarlaxle said with a disbelieving laugh. "Somehow I doubt that."

"Believe what you will," Nazir said.

"Though I will believe nothing you tell me," the mercenary replied with a frustrated smirk. "Whether as preachings or supposed facts about what you, I assume, are claiming to be to me which I care not to designate with a thought."

"Just remember, secondboy, as long as you keep your ties to either Menzoberranzan or Cormanthor, you will perpetually remain the confident slave," Nazir replied with a hiss. "Go back to Menzoberranzan and play Triel Baenre's whore a little more. Continue with Drizzt Do'Urden and expect him to turn you into his lackey. You may fancy yourself his mentor, the one who feeds orders into his warped mind, though he is becoming a lot more savvy than you give him credit. You can also give credit for that to Vhaeraun, who is playing his strings like he is playing yours."

Jarlaxle rolled his eyes again expecting as much, though he felt a slight sense of truth in those words.

"As of now, him and the human, who the Masked Lord has also taken a liking to, are plotting what they feel is the true route to my caverns," Nazir said, motioning to the wall.

Jarlaxle looked up to the gray stones, only to see a glowing image of Drizzt and Entreri in a darkly lit room with the two clerics looking over a series of maps spread across a table with markings he recognized as both surface and Underdark. Ilzir was pointing to a location around the Thunderpeaks on both a map of the surface and a rough map of the caverns below as Drizzt and Entreri studied it closely between sips on their respective mugs of ale.

Jarlaxle shook his head and looked back at Nazir, whose gaze was blank.

"Notice how you have been conveniently placed in here to play with sticks against a foul spawn of an Evermeet refugee and her human paramour in the flesh industry," Nazir said. "They want to keep you out of the way, or maybe they fear you. Regardless, so are stuffed here anyway."

"And you can offer me a better place?" Jarlaxle asked, looking at the ceiling.

He looked back at Nazir, only to find himself looking at the wall.

"_Vith'os_," the mercenary sneered into the empty air, throwing down his staff and cracking it through the middle.

The loud snap sobered him slightly, as well as made him aware that the weapon he had been given was far more fragile than it should; fragile enough to break if he hit someone hard enough with it perhaps and block any major damage he might inflict.

He looked down at the two halves sitting on the floor as if to mock him, though his momentary reverie was broken by footsteps across the stones.

"He's strong enough to destroy things," he heard Drizzt say from the end of the room.

Jarlaxle didn't want to look up, though his head lifted practically on its own to see Vhaeraun's champion walking beside his human associate as the two clerics took to the rear of the group. He merely smiled and nodded in return.

"I'm fine," he said tersely.

Drizzt walked forward, taking a good look at his old friend while moving closer to him and noting how his face was now its brilliant ebony hue and he stood up strongly. He was indeed recovering.

Entreri however, eyed him curiously and kept a distance. Jarlaxle was indeed healthy, though there was something about his gait and the strained look on his face that made him not so sure.

"Indeed," Mazn'reysla said, coming to the front. "It looks like one more night of rest is all any of us will need tonight before restarting our little journey."

Jarlaxle subtlety cocked an eyebrow as he was suddenly aware of the slight odor of ale on the young drow's breath.

Author's Note; I credit the wonderful phrase "meat shield" to my fabulous and fabulously evil gaming group.


	20. Meeting of the Minds

**The Lesser Evil: Hooligan's Holiday**

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of R.A. Salvatore/Wizards of the Coast ©. I don't own them; I'm just examining all their possibilities.

Author's Note: And we're back!

For all those who have been diligently following this story, my apologies for the long delay. Real life smacked me back in August in addition to inspiration for a new fic and general exhaustion with this one. Now, your friendly author is a bit more rested and has some ideas in order. The official hiatus is over, though I will be slow in updating on occasion.

Just a note as we continue: this is my concept of how certain characters will react to certain things. Everyone will have different interpretations of character response, I have mine. While I will do my absolute best to keep individuals in character, please bear this in mind. Also this is a story about evil in varying degrees; the vast majority of the characters are of an evil "alignment" of some level and will act accordingly. This story has little to do with charity or redemption, though in my opinion morally and psychologically corrupted characters such as these are still capable of a certain degree of loyalty and duty depending on the individual. This, once again, is my interpretation.

As always, constructive criticism is encouraged but any comments in any form bordering on flaming will not be dignified with an answer. For all those who have supported this story and encouraged me to keep going, I can't thank you enough. Now on with the show.

**Chapter 20: Meeting of the Minds**

Four days

The thought passed through Entreri's mind repeatedly, annoying him more and more every time it came up.

Merely four days had passed since he, Drizzt, and Jarlaxle left Cormanthor in pursuit of Moril.

It had been four days since he had almost gleefully taken the road in pursuit of a miscreant by the side of his companions like he had on so many different occasions over the course of his life; seven years of which with Jarlaxle and the past year and a half with Drizzt Do'Urden, his former arch nemesis who joined the company in the midst of his mental breakdown.

The shallow concept itself almost seemed quaint to a degree, though Entreri had never known the meaning of sentimentality. That was until that one day when he, without thought, without suspicion, completely leapt at the opportunity to go on a hunting mission lead by the completely untrustworthy Jarlaxle and the completely unstable Drizzt.

Entreri ducked into another back alley away from the main thoroughfare of one of the most desolate and desperate sections of Saerloon, scanning the buildings and pre-dawn sky for any flying devils or beholders that might prove inconvenient to his mission. He continued down the alleyway, mentally noting the pervading smell of rotting garbage strewn all over the alley like snow with a rotting corpse of some man lost to history sprawled face first on the ground.

The assassin idly looked down at the corpse, mentally noting the way the haggard man clutched its chest even from its current position and playing a little mental game of guessing how he died as he moved along. Judging by the cramped position, it was likely a heart attack, though the way the cadaver's jaw was gaping open likely pointed to poison. That had to be it.

Entreri smirked in spite of himself, enjoying the momentary piece that came from such a simple exercise and fully realizing how it helped lighten his heavy mood slightly; only slightly.

He continued to the end of the alley, pressing his back against the wall and quickly scanning the street and buildings before almost floating to the gravel road like a shadow before materializing into another black cloaked figure like all the rest. He didn't see anyone out around the street, though the sight of an old woman in rags selling dead flowers to the air was almost a comfort.

Entreri's black boots strode across the ground swiftly, yet carefully. He pulled down the brim of his black bolero hat, a tacky gift from Jarlaxle that did have some uses, as he walked past the women; causing his body to disappear from all eyes as he strode past completely unnoticed. One less person who noticed him the better; he did not want his movements to be too traceable by any whom might be pursuing him.

He then turned the corner, pulling the brim up again and making himself visible as he walked down the cobblestone street strewn with various street people reaching up and begging for coin. It only took one glare for all of them to cower from him like zombies shriveling before a paladin.

It was good to be back in a typical city; the odor of death, stale pipeweed, a million chimneys, and whatever other smell spiced up the atmosphere almost made Entreri feel at home.

The assassin already had his destination and it had been easier to find than he suspected; the right paths were not hidden while an assortment of street people and barhands were a little too willing to surrender information. The usual alarms went off in his mind that there was a trap ahead, another possibility that made his situation almost feel normal.

Instead of charging in pursuit, he decided to give his prey a little more of a head start, truly test how willing they were to leave the city and set out for their own journey or how much they really meant business. They had forty-five minutes already, what was another fifteen?

At this point he was merely walking, shifting from one street and alleyway to another to get a feel for this potentially useful city and to clear his head after being bombarded with information and assorted other realities in one evening adding to the nonsense he had gone through these past four days.

Four days, he thought again with a heavy sigh, the press in his temples still refusing to go away despite being away from the earlier chaos.

Normally he would push such distracting thoughts out of his mind, but now he needed this time to sort them out lest they become even more distracting or worse.

The past four days were strewn with one enigma after another and bad situation after bad situation. He should have expected that the first second he learned of Jarlaxle's genius plan to go after Moril.

In the past, even if Jarlaxle suggested going to buy an apple Entreri had learned to question every single motivation the mercenary may have had within that particular mission and any factors outside.

Entreri couldn't count how many times he had kicked himself for merely going along with Jarlaxle's word on the mission and not picking apart every single detail. He had gotten sloppy, a reality that did nothing but scrape against his last nerves though the only solution to this was ride the storm and find his own hand holds.

Besides, his thinking was far from clear anyway at that time; his mind trying anything it could to pry his thoughts and memories away from…

Entreri once again pushed back his instinct to shut the painful thoughts out. He needed to face every demon he had as every one of them was thrown at him over the past few days, no, the past tenday; the past month…the past forty-seven years.

His mind was trying to peel itself off the reality of his death. There. Entreri sighed, feeling a small amount of liberation by just thinking the words.

He couldn't think of a moment where he had ever let his guard down so much in one situation, though one does not think normally after awakening from death at the hands of Bani Pilazi's wizard; awakening from the horrors that awaited him in the afterlife.

Entreri stopped the parade of thoughts right there lest they get too loud. That matter was over. Bani Pilazi's wizard died at Drizzt's hands while Drizzt and Entreri took turns skewering the one who ordered that attack; Bani's goodly rogue son Jordani. Jordani, apparently sent by Tymora to find Moril, was now dead. What happened to Jordani's second blade, who was Drizzt's former Companion of the Hall and Entreri's former associate turned quarry Regis, was a moot point.

His lack of caution due to whatever reason had left him oblivious to the two forces waiting to use him as a pawn or consume him entirely; he still couldn't decide which one of them was more insidious.

And they all had traveled, supposedly under the auspices that they all had an advantage over all the bounty hunters and paladins hunting the self-proclaimed enemy of the gods. It was only later when more of the truth became apparent; the most powerful of those hunting parties were champions who had been sent on their respective missions by the besmirched gods themselves. Entreri learned this when he found out one of his own traveling companions was such a champion.

It was supposed to be a vacation, though as he should have known the whole matter was one enigma after another; one feint-within-a-feint scenario after another that was any drow's lifeblood whether from the webs of Menzoberranzan or the shadowed forest of Cormanthor.

On one side, Jarlaxle pulled them into the hunting trip on the bidding of Gromph Baenre, who apparently offered Jarlaxle and his company an obscene amount of money to catch Moril alive. In reality, Gromph had used all of them, especially the shifty mercenary himself, as bait for an extremely dangerous, powerful, and unstable necromancer. Whether Gromph hoped Moril obliterated them all, the archmage was actually planning to take Moril himself when he took the bait, or this was all an elaborate experiment of some nature were still mysteries and issues of contention.

Apparently there was another fun aspect of the equation that Gromph kept from any of his low hireswords; Moril was in truth Nazir Klau'Thest, a drow who Gromph had as a student or a lackey at one point whose madness could be attributed to a vicious attack by a priestess that left him horridly deformed.

Whether by accident or scheme, Gromph had put Jarlaxle into Moril's talons.

It was another thought that made the assassin shiver in the slightest way and took his concentration off his current train of thought. Jarlaxle, the confident, scheming, eccentric drow had his body rendered as a puppet for Moril while his mind was slowly being broken.

On a deep level, the thought unnerved Entreri for any number of reasons. It was probably a concern for his own flesh or perhaps no small measure of camaraderie he reluctantly felt for Jarlaxle; his oldest traveling companion, one of the only people, despite all their respective treacheries, he actually considered something resembling a friend.

The thought of him beaten down like that just made him ill pure and simple. Regardless, Entreri knew he had to keep his guard up even more around Jarlaxle now. Despite the dramatic show by Gromph and Vhaeraun's priests, the possibility that Moril still possessed Jarlaxle's body even in a less conspicuous manner was very real. Even with the grand exorcism in the catacombs of Shar's temple, Jarlaxle still wasn't quite himself.

It could have been that his usual mirth was muted by exhaustion and the beginning of the slow process of regaining his faculties after Moril raped his mind. Gentle excuses, however, were bait for any mental trap.

That poisoned gaze and stiff gait Entreri saw in the temple's practice room wasn't a reaction Jarlaxle would give to anything. If he was even remotely angry at someone his expression was more impatient while this was absolutely seething. Something was completely amiss, giving Entreri a reason to be even warier around his old companion than usual.

When Entreri was on his way out the door, Jarlaxle had been given a separate suite in the temple away from the one Entreri was put in with Drizzt. At the time he mentioned wanting a hot bath and a large bottle of mead, reactions typical of Jarlaxle indicating that maybe some of his personality had survived; unless Moril had the same interests.

Then there was that whole "third born sacrifice of Matron Baenre" matter that complicated things on at least a minor level.

Entreri shut off his thoughts as they pressed a little too far and made his aching head hurt worse. He gradually slid past another corner and into a wider street that looked a bit more used by the general populace though no less grimy. The assassin looked around at the black buildings and high spires, remembering the description that twitchy roadside preacher in rag vestments gave him of "the block where pure evil lies."

Around this corner, Entreri's defenses went up even more, not having any idea the manner of location where his quarry actually kept themselves. A scan of the air revealed no devils or beholders, though silent alarms could have been everywhere at this point. A little gem he kept pinned to his vest made sure he was not being scryed on, though maybe they had a way of getting through that barrier as well. As much as he wanted to think otherwise, it would be naïve to assume his arrival would be a complete surprise.

He idly looked behind him and saw a small wisp of shadow coming from a back alley. Entreri looked to pay no attention, though it was obvious this was no ordinary trick of the imagination. He proceeded forward, looking behind him again and not seeing the same shadow. His guard was raised further, but he had a feeling that was being followed by a being a little more innocuous than all the other potential enemies he would meet on this walk.

The wisp of shadow was a common aftereffect of someone using shadows to conceal themselves; a common sight whenever Drizzt activated the scimitar that would shroud his form in shadows on command. It could have been any number of shadow dancers or mages, Saerloon was crawling with them as worship of Shar was common.

He almost hoped it was Do'Urden, indicating the normally impulsive drow was finally getting wise and being a bit more on his guard than he had been; maybe a better sign that he was actually thinking matters through and actually making plans as opposed to floating along and getting ready to disembowel the next thing that caught him off guard.

Entreri didn't know why he even cared, though he had a couple theories and too many of them he did not wish to think on. Maybe it was an indicator that at least one of his companions on this disaster had some measure of sanity; especially the one whose sanity seemed to lie still on the bloodied floor of a temple of Ilmater where it had been left over a year ago.

Maybe it was an indication a hardened soldier could go have every one of his demons shoved in his face within the course if a few days and not go stark mad, for if there was hope for Drizzt Do'Urden maybe there was hope for….

The thought produced another involuntary shiver and another effort to purge series of ideas too horrifying and too close to endure.

Drizzt may have found some sanity; plenty to use on his own mission for Vhaeraun, the other side of the equation that made matters infinitely more complicated.

Entreri wasn't usually as concerned about Drizzt's ulterior motives since his actions were beyond blunt and to the point of being predictably blatant. In the past few days, however, his usual motivations of killing and screwing for his own amusement may have changed. The drow ranger had apparently gone along with the journey as his own vacation; though Vhaeraun's avatar visited Drizzt the night before Jarlaxle announced the excursion. Entreri remembered this because he was there at the time; passed out on Drizzt's cot after drinking himself into a stupor following his resurrection.

Vhaeraun, in the body of Drizzt's foul priest and sexual play toy Mazn'reysla, had spoken to Entreri directly.

Entreri immediately shut out all recollection. That appearance too was only good for providing information about Vhaeraun's intentions, period. The god's searing words only made a part of him want to crawl into a ball and weep; a state of weakness he would not allow himself.

Vhaeraun's involvement in this fiasco, however, was a major piece of the puzzle.

"I try to give you work and you tear your employers apart," Gromph had said to Moril in Jarlaxle's body; a recollection that floated to the surface by the numerous other conflicting thoughts in Entreri's brain.

That one sentence fully described the apparent reason why Vhaeraun had thrown his black name into the effort against Moril. According to Ilzir Mourbasin, a new player in this game who still disgusted Entreri by her mere presence and involvement, Nazir Klau'Thest was a member of Vhaeraun's flock following his exile from Menzoberranzan and resided with the members of House Mourbasin; a group of anti-Lolth terrorists who committed random acts of roguery against the Spider Queen's regime.

According to legend, Nazir served his house well until Vhaeraun arrived in his avatar flesh during the Time of Troubles. After assaulting the mortal form of his god, Vhaeraun returned the favor before returning to whatever hell he came from. Nazir left his house and returned to make the wicked paradise into his own necropolis; killing and defiling the "matron" and "patron" before turning his rage on the rest of the house.

Entreri turned another corner and concentrated on a non-descript stone house at the end of the block with smoke pouring from the chimney. That was where the tavern whore at the Three Kittens house told him she knew where his quarry took gentle respite while in Saerloon.

The appearance of the building could not have come at a better time for it gave Entreri a distraction for a million other disturbing thoughts that were starting to continue their progress.

Hallia Mourbasin, a lauded traitor priestess who turned her low, Menzoberranzyr house into a merry group of revolutionaries, was matron while her consort was a priest from the Forest of Mir named Velz Auken. Allegedly, Velz had numerous trysts with women of various races giving him many children and almost 200 grandchildren; and Entreri was apparently one of them.

Entreri shook his head in an unconscious reaction, feeling the "news" was a form of sentimental blackmail that insulted his intelligence. He tried not to think of House Mourbasin as anything other than an explanation why Vhaeraun wanted Nazir dead; and why he sent Drizzt to do his bidding (though Hallia Mourbasin's lavender eyes in her "appearance" raised many other headache inducing questions).

He had no idea how seriously Drizzt took this mission, whether feeling he was actually doing the duty of his god or merely playing along while remaining positively frightened of the circumstances. Judging by the look of horror on his scarred face when two clerics of Gond near the Dragonmere addressed him as Vhaeraun's champion, it was likely Drizzt was one of the last people to know he was on a sacred mission. That factor was probably Vhaeraun's doing as he didn't imagine him as being any more formal and orderly than Drizzt was.

Now Entreri himself had been pulled into this in a role more complicated than just playing a drow's lackey, whether that drow was Jarlaxle, Drizzt, Gromph, Mazn'reysla, or any number of others. Now he was Artemis Entreri; the apparent second blade to Vhaeraun's champion, the descendent of a murdered priest avenging his ancestor's death to save his own soul.

It would almost make a quaint little legend, or could be, according to the words of one ancient bard, a tale told by an idiot full of sound and fury signifying nothing.

Entreri managed another smirk at his expense while walking toward the building and hoping to unravel another part of this damned puzzle.

--------------------

It was something Drizzt always admired, envied, maybe even idolized about Artemis Entreri.

The drow stayed locked in the magical shadows of his scimitar and sticking to dark corners while lightly padding down the dingy corridor spiced up with some purple banners illuminated with fake gems with a glow enchantment. He kept his hands close to his scimitars, though kept his gait loose and breathing even; there was no where else he needed to be at that moment besides a few paces behind the other floating shadow down the corridor.

Entreri needed no enchantments to float across the bunched-up black and red rug like he was made of black clouds. Charon's Claw and his fabulous dagger were in his hands as he scanned all directions of the short, stone corridor with an expression an artist or a chef would take to let his senses experience everything at the same time.

He made no glances at the billow of shadows at every corner, though Drizzt had the feeling he knew he was there. Drizzt doubted anything would pass the assassin's honed defenses at that moment; even a fly daring to cross his path would probably be sliced into quarters before it could give its last buzz.

Entreri would take less than a second to poke his head in every curved archway in this mini castle, making a momentary inspection before moving on to the next corner or room where an enemy may have stood in wait. So far, there was no thrust of weapons or even coiling of honed muscles ready to spring. He walked openly down this corridor like an angry king, yet moved so swiftly he could have ducked to the side and had a weaker effect.

Drizzt shuffled down the hallway after his companion, keeping his own senses ready for any treachery or attack and thinking for a moment that maybe Entreri meant for him to follow. Maybe Entreri was tired of all the enigmas and circumstances that surrounded his former arch rival and aimed to draw him into a trap. For some reason, however, Drizzt doubted that was the case; Entreri preferred his murder more up close and personal.

The human took one look downward before floating down below the floor. Drizzt kept up a few more paces to see the black cloak and black bolero vanish down a short staircase before melding with the shadows entirely.

For Entreri, pure stealth was an art form; something Drizzt had come to admire, envy, and maybe even idolize about his human companion though his disappearance was renewing every minor suspicion he had of treachery.

The entire fact he was in this strange place was one large indicator of treachery, though Drizzt somehow knew there was a method to his madness; there was always a method to his madness whereas Drizzt's madness seemed to just exist on its own.

The drow gave Entreri a head start, allowing him to at least commit his crime in order to be caught in the act. After counting to three, Drizzt swiftly padded down the stone steps, blending further with the darkness and sensing through it for any unseen enemies.

His steps lead him to a longer stone floor and the feel of a wooden door on the tip of his boot. Keeping one hand on Icingdeath's hilt, Drizzt gently extended his hand and felt the hard oak door. He gave it a small nudge and unleashed the soft roar of laughter and masses of conversation along with the aroma of Sembian wine.

"The bastard infiltrated a tavern," Drizzt mouthed silently, rolling his eyes and smirking.

He kept the door partially ajar while waiting for the sickening rush of silence, though the merriment continued as business as usual.

Drizzt slowly and gracefully squeezed his slender form through the small crack he had made in the door, fully entering the small, cramped expanse of tables, wine bottles, wisps of pipe smoke, and discordant tinklings of conversation. The shadows sill covered his form as he stood at the very back of the room, scanning the healthy-sized crowd of various silk and velvet garbed nobles or wannabe nobles.

All were carrying their flutes of champagne or red wine with pinkies out and fake smiles plastered all over their faces. A few pairs of exposed fangs from a few of the patrons told Drizzt another story; many members of the clientele were of the fancily undead persuasion. The fact most of the vampires were lithe and buxom women in tight corsets massaging the scalps of various male clients told another story.

Drizzt held bask the urge to guffaw; what in the name of the Abyss would Entreri be doing in a vampire brothel? Maybe he had certain fetishes his companions were unaware of, or maybe he wanted to unlive vicariously through this crowd. Maybe he was going on an independent mission and meeting his employer for either a holiday within a holiday or to officially cut his ties to the mission he was already on.

The salt and pepper beard and scarred face by the bar told the rest of the story.

The drow kept his back to the wall and his smile curdled as he eyed Sir Gherbod Wenthias, Bane's champion who had been haunting their steps from the first day of the journey. Every appearance by Wenthias and any of his party members (or more appropriately his brute squad) meant a hail of problems were just on the horizon.

Wenthias, however, looked completely relaxed; drinking what looked to be brandy from a crystal goblet with a peaceful expression and trading quips with the bartender; a pretty yet pretty undead young male with painted black lips, a sleeveless, black leather vest and black leather pants that left nothing to the imagination. Drizzt peeked further through the crowd and saw the blackguard clad in a fine white tunic and loose wool vest of black with gold threads strewn throughout; it was almost fascinating to see him completely calm and without his menacing black armor.

Unsurprisingly, the blackguard's mangy ranger friend Fielder was laying on a plush velvet couch with a bottle of whisky while chatting up the two pale-skinned whores running their claws through the brown hair on his head or his chest as revealed by an open tunic. Their fake smiles through pair of exposed fangs revealed he appeared more delicious than witty though only one of them leaned down to take a seductive nip from his wrist before returning to her coddling position.

A flash of silver hair turned Drizzt's eyes back to the bar where Linuin, Wenthias' hirespell and the ugliest moon elf in existence, sat at the end a few empty seats from his employer. He leaned on his knobby elbows while both hands clasped a large goblet of some concoction he sipped while keeping his usual scowl.

Drizzt took a better look and saw his face bore no scars from Entreri pummeling him below deck during their time in the Dragonmere just after the wizard and Wenthias' obnoxious son/cleric Toamroth sent a hoard of flying devils to attack them.

Drizzt smiled before slightly ducking further into the shadows as another figure passed within inches of him. The noble looking figure in the red velvet jacket was drinking some steaming concoction that smelled like cherries. He briefly turned his head to give Drizzt a look of two pointed horns protruding from his forehead below a mane of wavy auburn hair. The drow rolled his eyes, seeing the same strong nose and chin of Wenthias and his son. Maybe this was little Toamy's replacement.

It did explain why Entreri was searching through the halls of this building before coming down. With a new ability he gained after returning from death, he could sense the auras of evil outsiders and if Toamroth was hiding out in the building, he would have died again for his role in that attack.

As for how the assassin would treat Linuin, who would likely have met the same fate if his employer hadn't sent a group of beholders to retrieve him, Drizzt had his answer a moment later.

Linuin's relaxing moment visibly ended in a mass of quiet gasps as his body tensed and his mouth gaped open. Drizzt couldn't see where Entreri stuck the dagger, but the results were still the same.

The bartender looked over at the elf with confusion as Wenthias' attention slowly came to his hirespell, prompting a look of calm surprise with raised eyebrows; a similar reaction from Fielder, though he glanced over as if he heard a bird in the trees.

Linuin convulsed for another moment before putting his head on the bar with a series of relieved, yet scared gasps as he put his glass on the bar with a thud. A black gauntlet patted his head gently as all surprised eyed regarded the black clad human with an emerald-encrusted dagger in the other hand.

Entreri looked at Wenthias, nodding in greeting with a poisoned smirk as he casually sheathed his dagger. Wenthias' surprised look became more amused, as if he were greeting an old friend who made a surprise visit.

"Master Entreri, I presume," the blackguard said.

"Well met," Entreri replied stiffly, his icy smile firmly in place as he glanced down at Linuin, who managed enough energy to meet his gaze before whimpering and putting his head back on the bar. Entreri leaned on his elbows, raising one finger to the bartender. "One glass of mead, please, and keep the bottle out. And that liquor will be pure," he said with added emphasis on the "will."

The vampire shrugged and turned to the shelf of bottles behind him. Entreri leaned in a little more, the brim of his hat nearly touching the side of Linuin's head and provoking the elf to cower further as if trying to bury himself in the wood.

Fielder snickered loudly as Wenthias looked on amused.

"What brings you to this humble establishment, noble sir," Wenthias politely asked.

Entreri slowly looked up at him and smiled, though that icy glare that was his reason for existence was very much in place.

"Oh just a relaxing night of fresh air, drink, and…conversation," the assassin replied, the last word hissed out. He raised a hand and patted Linuin again, his thin fingers slightly roughly combing through his silver hair.

"If the assumption isn't too bold, I would say you have a bit more on your mind than simple enjoyment of company," the blackguard said, casually looking back and scanning the room.

His eyes did not land on anyone directly, though Drizzt didn't care if he was found. He figured Wenthias suspected his presence anyway since Entreri was supposedly Drizzt's "second blade" on the mission against Moril.

"Am I that transparent?" Entreri said with a stiff laugh, his grip on Linuin's hair tightening as his expression looked like he intended to pull the elf's head off with a thought. "No, my true purpose here is a little meeting of the minds. You and your little company have spent so much time shadowing our steps since the moment we left Cormanthor that we haven't had the time to really talk."

"Oh come now, we are far from stalking prey here," Wenthias said with an amused chuckle. "We are three teams of champions united in a common cause. I personally feel it is past time that we stop stalking each other and actually cement that alliance. This is a conversation I would have rather had with Vhaeraun's champion…"

"As opposed to his faithful slave," Entreri interrupted, his smirk turning to a cold grimace.

"As opposed to one member of the party speaking for the other," Wenthias calmly added, his voice taking a slight strain. "However, I perfectly understand your motives and reasons for being here. You are the second blade, hardly a slave's position though, and forgive me for saying, still not wielding the Masked God's sword. You are a legendary fighter and I give you the utmost honor, even admiration for your skill."

"Though with matters as they are," Entreri said, bowing his head semi-apologetically. "I would like to consider us champions united in a cause, but I take personal offense when someone sends a hoard of devils to kill me." He glared down at Linuin, who had passed out by now, before turning his glare to Wenthias.

"Most regrettable," the blackguard replied. "I have never had the intention of killing any member of your party."

"I count your words sincere," Entreri said. "For you weren't lying to my companion when you said Toamroth wasn't part of your party as I have searched every cranny and corner of this building. If he were here, I would shove that lie in your face in the form of his head."

"I figured that would be the case," Wenthias sighed, "and I do not desire for my son to be put in any more danger than what he brought upon himself already."

"However, your wizard hasn't answered enough for his own role in that fiasco," Entreri sneered, clasping harder on Linuin's hair and bringing his head up from the bar. "My intent was to kill him, claiming his debt as well as your's."

"Mine?" Wenthias chortled in surprised amusement. "As you saw from Arik's message to your companion, that business was Toamroth's decision, not mine."

"It's true," Fielder added with a shrug, pulling one of the vampire whores down for a rough kiss.

"Though you let him get out of control and didn't rein him in when he was under Moril's sway," Entreri said, his tone becoming more sarcastic by the second. "That was not only a mistake, but a sign of weakness from Bane's champion tyrant that resulted in…oh, let's see, nearly causing the deaths of Vhaeraun's champion and second blade but also the gruesome deaths of Selune's champion Vasha Milian and Torm's chosen paladin Seron… Seron what's his name, oh yes, Wenthias. Very sloppy, your lordship."

Drizzt grinned, knowing exactly where his companion was going with this, or at least hoping. The thought made the back of his head ache in remembrance of the blow he took from Toamroth's mace just as Jarlaxle cut into the bastard.

The bartender put the bottle of mead on the bar with a small glass. Entreri shoved Linuin's head back on the bar and snatched up the bottle, uncorking it with one hand and carefully sniffing the contents while glaring at the vampire behind the bar. The vampire stood back and gave him a blank, almost frightened look.

Entreri put down the cork and placed a small amount of the mead on his pinkie, gently lapping it off and analyzing its taste with the same menacing glare. The bartender bared his fangs in a sneer before Entreri smiled, toasted the bottle, and took a long swig before pouring a small amount in the glass.

Wenthias' dry smile remained in place the whole time as the assassin turned his attention back to the matter at hand.

"You truly have me there, sir," the blackguard replied. "Fine, for the sake of diplomacy I freely admit I sent Toamroth, Linuin, and three beholders on a reconnaissance mission when one of my eye tyrant allies said he saw the gauntlet of Torm as their standard. It was supposed to be mere fact-finding on who was aboard that ship. If I wanted to kill any of them, I would have done so after Moril's destruction."

"Common name be damned," Entreri added, taking a slow sip from his glass.

"I had no idea that my beholders would report back what they did," Wenthias continued, his voice a bit more strained while ignoring Entreri's comment, "though I have my doubts that was all Toamroth's doing as Arik told your companion. At least I don't have the blood of one of the champions all over my hands, Master Entreri. I will hold no judgments over what personal quarrel you had with Tymora's standard bearer, though from here on every champion and second blade should, to use the old adage, hang together lest we hang separately."

"That whole strength in numbers business," the assassin said with a dirty smirk.

"That whole meat shield business," Drizzt mouthed, resting his head against the wall while scanning the room.

"Precisely," Wenthias said with determination. "Arik and I still live as Linuin provides us with magics…as does my son Asorath" Wenthias motioned to the back of the bar. Entreri slowly looked back to see an auburn-haired tiefling raise his goblet with a grin. The assassin raised his glass with a fake smile before downing the contents. "My son is a mind mage, which should prove handy in disrupting Moril's mental intrusions."

A psion, Entreri thought with a grimace, lovely. He wondered if junior could read his next thought of "Moril is a necromancer, genius, your mind magics mean nothing to him."

"Regardless, this is a conversation best had with all parties present," Wenthias said. "I will speak with your companion soon, though I hope you will pass along all we have discussed this evening," Wenthias said with finality.

"Indeed," the assassin replied, putting down the glass. "I will pass along your request to my companion."

He typically didn't take well to being verbally escorted out, but some matters were best pressed at a later time. This turn of events was a bit more intriguing than any swordfight he could have with the blackguard; he hit a raw nerve somewhere and it likely had to do with his familial connection to Torm's champion. His curiosity was piqued, making him want to press the point further though he knew his time for that would come soon. Meanwhile, he had enough information now to hang all of them with later and was satisfied.

Entreri rose from his seat, looking down and seeing Linuin's blue-gold eyes darting up at him through his stringy hair. A dagger suddenly appearing an inch from his head made his eyes close once again. Entreri pulled his dagger from the wood with a smile, before nodding to Wenthias and walking away.

Entreri kept the dagger drawn and removed a few wood splinters from the blade while meeting the gazes of everyone in the room. On a certain level he was satisfied with how things had gone down, though he almost wished he had actually killed Linuin. Regardless, he had his information, though his growing fatigue prevented him from analyzing it now.

"By the way," Entreri said, looking back at Wenthias. "Tymora's second blade still lives."

"The halfling we saw running away from you," the blackguard replied, sniffing his brandy.

"Find him," Entreri said. "I'm sure he could be of some aid."

He gave another nod and turned back around. No one made any moves as he walked through the bar's main door out to the street and looking back. Interestingly enough that same puff of shadow he had seen earlier was not following him out. Maybe it had some extra business.

---------------------------------

A wave of shadows slipped from the second floor of the inn to the ground. Drizzt said a command word and the shadows dissipated, revealing the black form with more of a humanoid shape as he strode through the alleyway.

Entreri had left a few minutes earlier, though Drizzt saw him out the tiny window of one room walking back to the temple of Shar with a heavy gait. The drow expected more of a show from his companion, given his determined step and angry expression that only came when he was ready to kill something for pleasure and not business. But then Entreri had the ability to rein in his temper and use it in truly creative ways that did not always include bloodshed.

Maybe it was model behavior, Drizzt thought with a grimace.

He continued down the alley, looking up and eying the waning moon above and knowing it would be the new moon in the next day or so; a truly good omen considering his business.

Drizzt heard one shuffling of gravel behind him before WraithKiss was in his hand and he spun around to clash with a simply forged longsword.

Fielder held his position, staring at the scowling dark elf with a manure-eating grin.

"Not bad at all," Fielder said.

"Can I help you?" Drizzt replied in an annoyed tone.

"I'm all set, nothing more I need," the human replied, disengaging his blade and sheathing it.

Drizzt pointed his scimitar in Fielder's direction, waiting for any move and trying not to go ahead and imagine an attack to finally kill the son of a bitch. Fielder held his hands up though his grin remained intact.

"I don't want to get into this with you, buddy," Fielder said. "You heard what the big man said, we should all hang together."

Drizzt grimaced; he still didn't regret getting caught though the fact he was found so easily stung on a certain level. Diplomacy, however, was the best course of action no matter how much he despised this snake…who did little more than best him in combat.

"Fine," Drizzt replied, lowering the sword an inch though still keeping it drawn and ready. "Talk out something besides your ass and maybe this will end well. Now what the fuck do you want?"

"Just to know we're friends," the human said. "Look, about last time, when my first introduction to someone is a sword to my throat, I'll admit I get a little jumpy. That was then, khal abbil, this is now. Now we're champions at best and two assholes on a hooligan's holiday at the least. We're not too different, abbil; both of us rangers protecting Cormanthor from things that would fuck it up. Your people are my people, buddy"

"That's another interesting question," Drizzt said. "How long have you been whoring yourself to my people?"

"I've been working with your people before they were your people," Fielder replied in a pointed tone, though putting his hands a little higher as Drizzt stepped a little closer with his drawn sword and his unnerved smile. "Seriously, I'm an honorary Auzkovyn in a few circles, not around your territory but other parts of Cormanthor. When a swarm of stirges passed over Myth Drannor five years ago and got real ugly looking, guess who was there bow drawn to take them out. When a large clan of sun elves killed 20 Auzkovyn children while they went on a nature walk with their priest about four years ago, guess who helped flay them. When 100 of Vhaeraun's followers were massacred three years ago by a single psychotic, sword swinging cunt in Lolth's service, guess who helped shoot smokepowder arrows while a bunch of your priests sent her to the Demonweb in a pretty ball flames."

"Tales of the great loudmouth," Drizzt replied. "I said don't talk out your ass."

"You fucking owe me, Princy-poo," Fielder said, "though I'm better off on even ground with you as is my man back there."

"And you'll all hang separately if you fucking cross me," Drizzt said through gritted teeth, getting sicker and sicker of this bastard with every passing second. "Though I'm in a good mood right now and I'm willing to make a few compromises. You're going to continue to hover five feet behind my ass with your friends back there, no need to state that tale as well, though I see any more little nasties ready to eat me I will go after your ass first."

"Fine and fucking dandy by me," Fielder replied. "Oh, and by the way, consider the bow a goodwill gift."

The human turned on his heel so his back was facing Drizzt, who resisted the urge to skewer him as he probably wanted and watched as he walked back through the alleyway toward the inn.

Drizzt waited until he was out of sight before sheathing his scimitar and kicking the ground with a growl. He felt he was running in place; letting himself go absolutely mad and accomplishing nothing. Here he was holding a major grudge against a man for besting him; it sounded familiar enough to make himself feel like a fool.

He took a few breaths, putting his hands up briefly before walking back to the temple and desperately trying to regain his thoughts; thinking had become an activity he used to do all the time, maybe too much. Now everything was instinct; now everything was one temper tantrum after another as his mind and his body were in a perpetual state of chaos.

He breathed deeper, clenching and unclenching his fists as he mentally played back the conversation. He grasped on words he hardly heard, though a few words stuck out in his mind.

"When 100 of Vhaeraun's followers were massacred three years ago by a single psychotic, sword swinging cunt in Lolth's service…"

For some reason, the words stuck, becoming a blaring flag that held his attention.

He never heard of any incidents such as that. The concept of a single Lolthite servitor doing that much damage was a bit extreme, even yochols weren't that aggressive though a draegloth or similar creature was more realistic. It was likely Fielder was full of it as always.

It was also likely there was more to this than he thought; something else that could come along and destroy him he thought with a growl.

It was all becoming a bit too much.

Author's note: A huge credit goes to msfeistus for inspiration on Asorath. Asorath is partially based on her character Dr. Jon Knight, in addition to Danny Elfman's performance as the Devil in the gleefully awful movie "The Forbidden Zone." The "tale told by an idiot..." line is from Shakespeare's "Macbeth."


	21. Whispers

**The Lesser Evil: Hooligan's Holiday**

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of R.A. Salvatore/Wizards of the Coast ©. I don't own them; I'm just examining all their possibilities.

Author's Note: A little thing about canon…

I have kept this fic going with the fervent, if naïve hope that this story could not be considered AU because it would prove canon Drizzt is capable of going this insane. Alas, I was proven wrong with the release if Road of the Patriarch where my explanations for Entreri and Jarlaxle's origins were completely different than what RAS came up with, that and I think RotP exists only up until the boys are driven from Heliogabalus the first time.

However, a recent development in the Forgotten Realms involving one of the key characters in this series has drop-kicked this story into its own alternate universe. Details on this change shall be explained in this chapter.

**Chapter 21: Whispers**

_You're enjoying this too much, Mazn'reysla. _

Maz merely smirked at the soft voice poking in the back of his brain, which dripped with wicked amusement.

Another scaly creature jumped at him and fell down as a roaring ball of flames with merely a point as another goblin dodged to avoid his burning comrade and lunged a spear at the drow.

Maz caught a glimpse of the thug at the right time to spin on his toe like a dancer and narrowly dodge the point. His black shortsword hacked at the shaft close to the goblin's hand. The goblin snarled, spinning the spear at the right time to avoid the wicked blade. Mazn'reysla raised a fine eyebrow and nicked the point of his sword on the point of his spear. The goblin predictably parried, gnashing green teeth in a smirk. His smirk vanished as two pointed feet smacked into his chest, breaking several ribs as his head flew off a second later in a wave of shadows as the blade sliced through.

_I will say your sword skills have vastly improved, _the voice pressed again and Maz could practically see the amused smirk and approving nod from his master.

_I've been practicing_, Mazn'reysla answered back, leaping in the air and slicing into the shoulder of another goblin that tried to thrust a spear at him.

The goblin screeched, encouraging Maz to kick its wound with the heel of his high, black boot instead of slash into him further. The sight of the thing flailing and dying as blood gushed from his wounds made his already gleeful mood a little better.

The fact the goblin's peers were stomping over him as he screamed in his guttural tongue was even more amusing.

Maz idly brushed some dirt off his black leather vest before meeting the spear or another one of the weak creatures. He was holding them off with a blade now for his own amusement, though knew his martial play time would have to end soon. Maz, while adept at physical combat, rarely took part in it; he knew he could tire too quickly and needed to conserve at least a little energy to resume spellcasting.

He stole a glance down the long, grassy hill on which he had made his fighting perch to see about twenty more goblins charging up the grass. They didn't seem to notice the twelve hacked corpses of their companions littered about the hillside where Maz's traveling companions were making short work of their tribe.

Neither of his traveling companions, however, looked remotely as amused as he. Quite the opposite actually; Drizzt was not merely hacking into goblin bodies as much as he was rending them to gushing cubes that resembled a snarling goblin one second and ground meat the next. His animalistic growls and snarls indicated he was using this battle to get out a few frustrations that still refused to go away.

_He's reverting to that animalistic state again,_ the voice pressed again in Mazn'reysla's mind in an amused tsk. _Focusing all his pain and rage into spilling blood and smashing flesh apart. _

_He doesn't enjoy it though,_ Maz responded, parrying another spear that barely missed his shoulder while stealing another glance at his lover's violent snarl. _I can see the pain in his eyes, this state wounds him to the core._

_And whose problem is that to fix, _the voice calmly responded with a hint of mirth.

Maz smirked and spun out of the way of another spear while glancing down to Drizzt's human companion.

Artemis Entreri was further down the hill, his blades making cleaner cuts into one creature than Drizzt as usual though his lunges and hacks were done with a bit more passion. His face too bore the scowl of one who had seen better days. While Drizzt was taking out aggression, Entreri's expression was merely sour or sourer than Mazn'reysla was used to seeing. It was if this whole battle was dredge work and he was burning out from the mendacity.

_I think that one just wants to get this over with, _Maz thought.

_Or so he would like to think, _the voice responded. _I wouldn't underestimate our poor human. His surface mind may aim for a life of murderous simplicity, though I know he is silently exploring more than he cares to admit to himself. _

_This mission does have a purpose for him, _Maz replied with a smile as he chopped off half a goblin's right hand.

He could feel his Friend in Shadows smile back in self-amused pride.

Mazn'reysla put his attentions back on the goblin in front of him, which he idly sliced at before the snarling vermin fell apart in a mass of fire. It was one of Maz's little tricks, or at least the lack of a trick as in the lack of need for any gestures, components, or even arcane words. He just needed to look at something he didn't like and it could be either destroyed or in serious hurt in a mere second.

He stole another peek down the rocky hill while waiting another three goblins and looked over at the companion that had become a curious sight. Jarlaxle cut into two charging goblins at once with a double thrust of his twin long swords. The mercenary nimbly spun around and hacked into two more while two more fell a second later with quick backward lunges.

Maz had no idea the Baenre was this graceful in combat; he thought all Jarlaxle knew was throwing daggers or the power of his magic items when he wasn't standing safely behind the shields of his allies. Now he actually fought ably with two swords and finely honed drow dexterity. He had hacked into goblin after goblin for the past hour with no use of daggers or magic items.

It was as series of fighting tactics that would have been a bit less glaring if Jarlaxle actually wore his grand, plumed hat, mounds of jewelry, and finely tailored clothes. This scene was curious if not disturbing facts that his head was bare and actually had a thin coating of hair, the most glaring differences next to his dirty white tunic and gray cloak.

His appearance was not the only thing different; the normally garrulous and social mercenary hadn't even said any taunts or light banter to his companions or the creatures he was killing; instead he fought in almost silence, his face bearing a perpetual tired scowl as the subtle lines in his face appeared deeper.

_He was wearing that hat yesterday_, the voice said dourly.

_He's already deteriorating, _Maz replied, flinging a round of magic missiles into the next goblin and sending him rolling down the hill. _We must be closer to House Morbasin than we thought; Moril's essence is pulling him home. He insisted the other day that he wasn't shaving his head because he wanted to "try a new look" or some nonsense like that. Now we know the full truth._

_And what is that full truth, my son_ the voice said in amused curiosity.

Maz smiled, watching the two remaining goblins that were fighting him run away screeching with the sparse rest of their defeated kin.

_Our plan is working, the clown traitor is taking the bait, _Mazn'reysla replied.

_Now is the time to prepare for some nastiness,_ the voice responded, _from you… and him._

Maz smiled, looking back down at his companions. Drizzt growled at some of the fleeing goblins, Entreri wiped the goblin blood off Charon's Claw with his cape, while Jarlaxle watched the goblins' retreat with a vacant expression.

_If it's not too presumptuous, my Lord,_ Mazn'reysla thought,_ do you foretell our victory when the battle is over?_

There was a slight pause before a shadowy cackle emitted through his mind.

_I foresee House Mourbasin returning to its rightful masters,_ the voice said in a matter-of-fact tone overflowing with mirth. _I see our Prince returning to Cormanthor to a heroes welcome. I see a world where we shall know such triumph, it shall scare the goodly bards to their core; such a fear that will make them write of our defeat on all fronts, or even to inspire some convoluted story of my death._

Mazn'reysla snickered, prompting varying degrees of glares from his companions. He merely smiled at the glares, knowing dark times would come indeed.

---------------

The aroma of wood smoke was faint yet obvious.

Drizzt remained seated on his blanket, resisting the overwhelming urge to open his eyes and formally pinpoint the location of the fire though he took a few more deep breaths and visualized the small, aromatic flame less than a mile away from their location. They were all surrounded by goblins and orcs, yet this fire was too fragrant and mild to have been created by one of those bestial creatures.

He took another deep breath, imagining his body becoming one with the soft blanket underneath him, perhaps sinking into the rocky, grassy ground. Artemis was a few feet away sharpening his blades and he couldn't care less what Jarlaxle was doing, though he knew he probably should.

He tried to clear his mind, become one with his surroundings and ignore all the external and internal distractions, including the smell of the far off fire and the pounding of blood in his eardrums.

It was an old meditation he learned in Melee Magthere where his instructor trained them to get into a perfectly focused state and then release stinging insects of a varying nature to crawl on the students' bodies. Those who cried out or even twitched were usually killed or flogged by a particularly "generous" instructor and killed later.

Drizzt had remained still as a stone during this exercise; making no moves and keeping his eyes closed. The sting in his flesh was like another part of his being that had to be managed.

Decades of personal strife later, it was a perfect calm he had to find again despite all the personal worries and general internal chaos that threatened him at all times to tear him apart.

He focused his concentration on the aroma of wood smoke in the distance though that was another source of stress. Regardless it was a source of stress that had to be dealt with properly to unravel this mystery.

It couldn't be any one of the farmers inching out in a hunting party from any of the notoriously paranoid villages in Sembia, Cormyr, or the Dalelands; the party was stuck in the middle of all this though the area was too hostile and too far out for those groups. The thought of facing a group of pitchfork-wielding Dalelands farmers, however, almost sounded sweet to him; it was an element of home in a way, reminding him that the border of Cormanthor was less than a day's travel.

If the threat wasn't from the villagers, it was the orcs, goblins, and all the other manner of creatures that prowled the Thunder Peaks. Maz insisted the dracolich that was known for haunting these parts was sleeping on the opposite end of the range, though all guards were on high.

The company had left Saerloon two days ago. Drizzt and Entreri left with Jarlaxle, who had at least appeared to be maintaining more self control. Regardless, none of them talked aside from barking instructions during battle or inquiring about observations. The rest of the travel had been dead silence; just the bootsteps of three warriors in various degrees of weariness.

Mazn'reysla insisted on joining the party for magic cover, which no one seemed to protest outwardly though Entreri and Jarlaxle were clearly less than happy. Drizzt enjoyed his company, though neither were in any mood for intimacies other than occasionally nudging shoulders as they passed each other

Ilzir slipped away before they left Saerloon, Maz saying she needed to round up the 55 remaining members of House Mourbasin who escaped Moril's wrath by being on assignments and duties far away from the House.

As for the House itself, Ilzir and Mazn'reysla insisted the central location changed by the hour and was undetectable on all maps to protect the House and its activities. Both clerics insisted they had ways to recognize the presence of the main hold, which had become Moril's headquarters, only available to them.

Entreri and Drizzt at least were hardly buying the explanation. If they did know where the House was located, it was not guaranteed that Moril would stay comfortably in one place.

Drizzt took another deep breath, getting ready to think the next words in such a manner that didn't make his blood boil.

The priests indeed had a way of knowing the location of Moril, Entreri and Drizzt knew this; that indicator was the party itself or more likely one member of the party still recovering from Moril's attack.

Neither of them was amused, yet both of them silently and wearily realized they had no choice. It was only a matter of letting Moril come in close enough and at least weakening him before he could to any major harm to Jarlaxle.

It was a tiny bit of optimism the assassins held in a loose part of their brains, though the thought was only enough to mute both their respective rages and actually continue this journey when they both knew they were likely offering Jarlaxle as a sacrifice to get close to Moril.

The thought that this sacrifice could be easily made considering that Jarlaxle got them all into this mess in the first place was another tiny speck of thought that kept all of them on track while the underlying feeling would also have undone the momentum.

It was a perpetual balancing act between maintaining their cold professionalism to complete the task at hand and their existing sense of friendship in whatever degree to Jarlaxle.

Drizzt gave a deep, frustrated sigh and opened his eyes. This sure as the Hells wasn't Melee-Magthere and he had a whole mountain's worth of nasties of various races, forms, and powers looming over him; he was entitled to be a little less relaxed.

He stretched his legs out on the blanket, planted his feet against the grass, and positioned his legs to let him come to a stand. He took a deep breath of air, awake though a bit calmer than before. The smell of smoking cedar gradually took on the aroma of juicy, roasted beef; another indication whoever was over that hill was not an orc or even a villager.

Drizzt smirked and shook his head, knowing full well to whom the fire and roasting meat belonged. He walked off the blanket, kicking it aside and looking back to the company's small camp. Mazn'reysla was sitting near a mass of rocks on the other side of the area reading his spellbook and sipping a small glass of wine.

Entreri was by the fire systematically oiling and sharpening his dagger with a tired expression. He looked up at Drizzt briefly before turning his black eyes back on the chore ahead of him.

Drizzt slowly turned his gaze to the small, extra-dimensional tent a few feet from the fire. By the fire's faint light, he could make out the slight outline of a sitting humanoid form. Jarlaxle went into the tent after the last battle with barely a word to anyone, likely making his millionth attempt at a real Reverie though Drizzt doubted if Trance would ever come to him. Moril had done such a fabulous job of ripping into his mind that his traveling companion would likely not know any peace.

Moril was not done with him by any means.

Drizzt kicked the tow of his boot into the ground, spinning around and walking swiftly away from that which enraged and scared him. He continued walking past the fire, past Entreri's short glance, and past the blanket on which he tried to find peace earlier. There would be no peace here, or anywhere.

He continued, his steps kicking up the dry soil and crunching on small patches of grass. At first he looked back to see the campsite fading from view, then he stopped looking; only keeping his gaze ahead as his nose locked on the scent of the aromatic fire ahead.

Drizzt knew he could be waling into a trap set by at least a thousand different people with a thousand different reasons for wanting to torture, kill, capture, redeem, or negotiate with him. He could have cared less about any of the implications, just wanting any lingering threads finally tied, whether they were tied with swords or words.

His steps across the grassy, rocky terrain became harder. He had no idea where he was going or if the destination even mattered. Soon his legs fell into a steady run over the boulders and hills that made his path, dodging low-hanging trees and leaping over ancient stumps. The only thing leading him was the strong smell rosemary and smoked beef fueled by his perpetual frustration.

Drizzt's rage was firmly in place, though now as a slow burn instead of an exploding mass. The only thing that tempered him was the underlying reality of exhaustion combined with general frustration about being perpetually helpless to the situation…and his own whims.

The tip of his toe hit a rock in the path, causing him to stumble for a few steps before regaining his balance. A part of his mind wanted to regain his footing and continue running, though his conscience made his body fall with the trip in a controlled way so he sat on the ground with a rough thud.

Drizzt let out a hard grunt and kicked his heels into the dirt before burying his hot face in his hands and taking deep breaths mingled with shallow, almost non-existent sobs.

_This has to end_, he thought to himself in subconscious words he had held in for so long. _For fuck sakes, I can't go on like this._ _Though how exactly do I intend to go on_.

Drizzt picked his head up, flinching at the slight sheen of tears in his gray palms as a calm broke in his brain. He reached to his back and drew the silver shortsword, holding it in his hand and visualizing the shadows that poured from it when he cast Moril from Jarlaxle's body at the house of the Gondorian family.

He gazed into the metal, almost meditating on the hilt's silver vines and the dark sheen it took under the black sky. He took a few deep breaths, concentrating on the blade without reluctance and without fear. It was no longer a tool of his forced servitude, nor was it an implement with uncertain meaning.

It was the sword of his god, the sword he wielded as Vhaeraun's champion.

The words passed through his brain before he could hold them back or even ponder their meaning before they were delivered to a cold, cruel entity.

"A little help, please," he whispered with a heavy sigh, the flat of the blade an inch from his lips.

A dark chill emitted from the sword as he saw a small wisp of shadow circling him on the ground.

_What would you have_, a soft, almost sarcastic voice floated through his mind. Drizzt didn't know if he was answering himself, though he suspected he had been answered by the intended party.

Drizzt sighed, thinking on the question.

"Peace," he whispered back, expressing his true feelings at last.

He did not say the word with a thought of pacifism or cowardice; he said the word letting out his mass of frustration with himself and everything around him. He felt vulnerable, yet finally gaining control of every emotion that ruled him his entire life.

A small chuckle broke his inner silence, though it sounded more amused than mocking.

"Fine, you son of a bitch, I'm admitting I need your help," Drizzt whispered with a small, unnerved chuckle. "Isn't that what good worshippers do?"

He took a few more breaths and savored the swish of trees in the wind while feeling a rush of various emotions welling up inside him.

"Though maybe to you a good worshipper continues with his scheming and chaos and violence and doesn't talk to you unless he wants to crush his enemies or give you golden shit," he continued in a breathy tone bordering on laughing and crying; not caring how mad he sounded to Vhaeraun, Moril, or anyone else who happened to be listening. "Well in this case, I'm a shitty worshipper, but that's not stopping me from saying something and feel free to fucking send a nasty demon and cut me the fuck down if I do. I'm talking to you, godsdamnit. Deal with it!"

_Talk away_, the voice responded. _You want peace, and how would you have this peace?_

Drizzt casually looked around him, seeing the wisp of shadow become thicker as one tendril curled upwards.

"I would have this peace through control," Drizzt replied with a sigh, not wanting to censor himself or mince any more words.

_You already have that power, or do you? _the voice responded, the tendril of shadow curling into a figure eight and clearly becoming the shape of a mask. _Is the mighty Rogue Prince admitting he is lacking in control?_

"Laugh it up, whoreson," Drizzt said in an almost defeated tone. "The mighty Rogue fucking Prince comes before you humbled. Happy?"

"Very much so,"the voice responded, sounding less like a thought and more like an actual voice. "Though not so much at your expense; you are actually showing some maturity, horrors of horrors. I should, however, kick your smarmy little ass around these rocks until you're a mashed mess of pulp for not coming to this conclusion sooner. You have wasted so many resources and efforts, least of all that bald piece of colorful meat you considered such a swell friend."

Drizzt's first instinct was to mention how Vhaeraun was less than pleased with Jarlaxle, though he held his tongue knowing there needed to be more cooperation on his part. The eyes of the mask were green, indicating Vhaeraun was a bit curious with this turn of events.

"If I truly knew how to save him, I would," Drizzt said with a slight crack in his voice as more came out. "There, I said it. If I knew how to get that piece of necromantic shit out of his brain you bet your high ass I would. But I don't."

"Good boy," Vhaeraun replied. "Doesn't that feel better to just get it out there?"

"Orgasmic," Drizzt said dourly, "now for fuck sakes how do I do it."

"I thought you didn't desire power?" Vhaeraun said.

Drizzt glared at the mask with a sneer that dripped with hunger.

"I see," the mask replied, eyes turning gold, "so Drizzt Do'Urden is a true drow after all and not just a good natured marauder with black skin. Yes, I know 'laugh it up, whoreson.'"

"Your words," Drizzt said, forcing a smirk.

"Funny, is it not," Vhaeraun said. "I asked you to complete a simple task for me and you've been pissing and moaning about it since night one. Now you are practically groveling before me though trying to keep your head up by still pettily insulting me."

"And you would never have done the same, say, to mommy?" Drizzt said.

Vhaeraun gave a chilling laugh.

"Indeed," Vhaeraun said, "but we are not talking about me. We're talking about a little boy who knows he's in trouble and is begging daddy to dig him out."

"Though my fingernails are clawing at clay," Drizzt said with a cracking sigh, feeling his rage burning but putting in every effort to stay as calm as possible, "and you know that. I'm admitting I'm at the bottom here, whether that is apology enough is up to you."

"And you are too proud to grovel," Vhaeraun said, though his tone was more matter-of-fact than boastful. It almost sounded as if he understood Drizzt's words. "Though you are not too proud to admit when you're fucked, and that's not necessarily a bad thing, abbil. What is your theory on emotion again?"

"Emotion is not weakness, though to lose control of emotion invites weakness," Drizzt said, absorbing every word.

"My point exactly," Vhaeraun replied, his eyes becoming red. "Now that we've finally decided to practice what we preach, I assume I can expect a little more cooperation from you."

Drizzt nodded, knowing it was best to be honest than smarmy. Though he maintained his strong posture and gaze at the mask, communicating he would not be walked over.

The lower portion of the mask turned up in a kind of smile.

"I cannot provide you the answer to your questions," Vhaeraun said, the eyes of the mask turning green. "But you know who can."

Drizzt mentally cursed the enigma, though the buzz in his sword brought the answer to him in a sudden realization that floated through the sudden clarity in his mind.

"The gem is still in the rock," Drizzt said, "and I have to chisel it out."

The mask gave another smile before gradually fading into nothingness. Drizzt concentrated on the shadow, observing its every movement and imagining himself in its blackness. He touched the shadow with his sword, clearing his mind a bit more and concentrating on twirling the shadow on the blade like a snake would coil on a branch.

The wisps of shadow broke apart at first, though Drizzt's movements became slower, more calculated. The tendril wrapped around the blade, a silver glow almost attracting the blackness like a thorn bush would catch a piece of cloth. Soon the shadow was coiling itself around the length of the blade and wrapped its way to the hilt.

The tendril caressed Drizzt's hand, producing a familiar chill that he welcomed. It was unnerving, yet soothing in the same moment; terrifying and orgasmic. He pushed his fear aside, concentrating only on the soft chill of the shadows. His grip on the handle tightened, savoring the feel of shadows and steel.

"What nature of sword are you?" Drizzt whispered with a pleased sigh, feeling as if this blade was calling to him; feeling as if this blade was an extension of his body.

He further concentrated, imagining himself become one with the blade and one with the shadows, feeling himself drifting into a trance. A lingering part of him fought the sensation, crying out against the chill of shadows and coming darkness, though the voice was silenced as it had been repeatedly for the last year and a half.

_I will have my answers_, he thought through the black haze in his mind.

_Are you truly ready? _a voice said in his mind…a soft, female voice he heard in his dreams.

_You have something to tell me, Hallia_, Drizzt thought, picturing the lovely female drow with the same cold lavender eyes that he possessed._ I tire of enigmas_.

_As you should, _she replied, her beautiful form emerging from the shadows that clung to her like an elaborate gown. Her thick hair was blown back by a cosmic wind as her face was locked in a playful smirk.

Drizzt reached his hand up and leaned in to caress her face, tilting her head back to better show her eyes.

_You are looking at my eyes, _Hallia said coyly, though her thick lips remained still. _Have you ever wondered how we got this color._

_Enlighten me, _Drizzt replied, opening his mind for all possibilities.

_His name was Eilerin Sorilan, _Hallia replied mysteriously, _Sekila Mourbasin's favorite bed slave, father of a perfect drow daughter. The surface elven blood, however, hardly diluted; drow red with elven blue._

_Fascinating, _Drizzt thought back. _Are you saying I also must have faerie blood in me?_

Hallia leaned in further, wrapping her strong arms around his body and caressing his cheek with her lips. Drizzt paused for a moment, slowly kissing her cheek and holding her ice cold body closer. She felt comfortable, though not like a lover. He felt his heart pounding in perfect beat with hers.

_The heir of House Mourbasin_, she whispered in his ear. _Welcome home, grandson._

_Grandson,_ Drizzt replied with a disbelieving chuckle, though the connection made sense. _Whose line did you give your son to?_

_One was sold to House Do'Urden,_ she replied, her tone hollow and sad. _Another went to House Flaen'Tlabber. You know what became of the third._

Drizzt nodded, sensing the anger pouring from her.

_That is why you turned from Lolth, _he replied. _She ordered the murder of your child._

Her grip around his body grew stronger as he felt her chin rub against his shoulder in a nod. Drizzt sighing laugh in a realization she returned as he felt her smile against his cheek.

He gripped the sword tighter, his body relaxing as his thoughts inquired about its origins. A sudden image of Vhaeraun's weapon belt flew into his mind as did the image of Vhaeraun drawing the sword and handing it to Hallia.

Drizzt opened his eyes and saw Hallia had pulled back from him, gazing into his eyes with a knowing smirk.

_A reward for great hospitality while he was in mortal form,_ he thought. _This is his sword, which he must have replaced it when he returned to Ellanith._

_Shadowflash, _Hallia replied. _Very good. Are you going to start taking this a bit more seriously?_

_Absolutely_, Drizzt replied with certainty, feeling a weight of confusion lift from his shoulders. _Though one more question; Nazir Klau'Thest?_

Hallia's lips parted in a toothy grin before she leaned in and kissed Drizzt on the cheek. The shadows that wrapped her body enveloped him as a gale of wind rushed past his ears with a howl that sounded like a series of drow words.

The wind passed as did the soft chill of the shadows. Drizzt opened his eyes and shivered as he looked upon the same spot of grass and rocks on which he first sat. He jumped to a stand, stumbling over the ground and feeling the mundane breeze and rocky terrain.

Adrenalin coursed through his veins as he beheld the landscape in shock. Where were the shadows and where was Hallia, his grandmother of who knows how many generations? Where was the perfect cold blackness and why was he here? He leaned against a small evergreen and let the dizziness play itself out as he inhaled the aroma of cedar wood cooking succulent beef.

After a moment of concentration, he regained enough of his bearings to be functional; the cool air not baking him and the faint glow of the camp fire on top of the hill not blinding him. He leaned his back against the tree, enjoying the slight sting of the stiff needles as a way of waking him from his momentary trance.

Drizzt took a few deep breaths, holding up his hand and seeing it shaking violently. This was not the shake of rage however; it was the rush of cold happiness. No drug or flesh could replicate this; this was organic, pulled from the planes itself and plunged into his body.

He gave off a series of giddy laughs, looking up at the black sky. The moon was new; back in Cormanthor they would be holding the stag hunt and offering the animal's heart and antlers to Vhaeraun.

I already have my celebration, he thought with another laugh as he pulled himself away from the tree.

The needles clung to his tunic, though his long, thick mane of hair was tangled firm in the branches. Drizzt cursed, grabbed the bulk of his hair, and on instinct sliced of the mass above his hand with the shortsword.

He shook his head as his senses slowly returned, looking at the mass of hair in his hand and feeling his head much lighter. He shoved the hair into his belt and felt the back of his head with his free hand, feeling his hairline was now at the top of his neck. It was a moment that sobered him a little more, realizing he had given himself a haircut without realizing it. Maybe his head would have suffered the same fate with the right sword angle.

Drizzt shook his head. His hair was burned off in a cleric's spell while he slaughtered monks in the temple of Ilmater in Waterdeep, the moment of his true rebirth. Maybe this was the start of yet another evolution.

He laughed, pulling his hair from his belt, throwing it on the ground along with a lit match. The last thing he needed was another necromancer getting hold of some part of his body.

Though Nazir Klau'Thest had his own methods…though Nzifrel Baenre had his own methods.

Drizzt smiled, watching the hair turn to ash then nothingness on the sandy ground.

He had the bastard's true name now, the name with which Lolth recognized him.

Drizzt watched the last of his hair burn away before looking up at the campfire glow. He may have had a way to get Moril, though he would still need a little help.

--------------

Entreri was a few feet away. Jarlaxle knew this, though it almost felt as if he was breathing in his face.

Jarlaxle took a deep breath in the millionth attempt at calming his hypersensitive nerves, though the effort was futile. He could not drift into Reverie, he never would.

The mercenary opened his eyes, seeing his human companion sitting across from him in the tent and giving him a patient glare.

"Pardon me for interrupting your trance," Entreri said calmly, though with little hint of any regret.

"I thought you were outside," Jarlaxle replied in an annoyed tone, the blood pounding through his ears. "I assume you're ready for bed."

"Actually I wanted to say a few words," the human said, his expression still blank. "None of us have been saying anything to each other in the past two days and that is making me a bit edgy."

"Because you are such a fabulous conversationalist," Jarlaxle calmly hissed, wishing the human would just leave him the Hells alone, though the thought of being left alone made him shiver.

"Because you normally are," Entreri said, keeping his casual slouch and holding back so much frustration he felt over the past tenday.

Jarlaxle looked like the Hells. The light orb at the top of the tent only illuminated his sunken eyes and chalky complexion. He looked like an old Chultan as opposed to a handsome, mid-age dark elf. It was the ultimate, sickening reinforcement that Moril was still torturing him. It was the ultimate show of what could happen to a man when subject to magical control; a thought that terrified him.

The priests' wonderful plan to draw him closer to Moril's new headquarters further emphasized this. Jarlaxle now looked like an invalid; like the shell of the man he had always known.

"It's been a long journey and I am a bit tired," Jarlaxle replied stiffly, adjusting his weight forward and becoming increasingly aware of the ache in his back. He felt worn, the perpetual anxiety over every rustle of leaves and call of a wolf was pressing on him.

"We could have used some extra magical support out there," Entreri said, pressing the point further to see how he would react. In a way he was starting to enjoy this dangerous little game; playing with fire always had a small appeal after all.

Jarlaxle gave an uncomfortable laugh, communicating frustration and annoyance.

"They were goblins, and we had the priest," he replied. "That was enough."

"Every little bit counts you know," Entreri said, slowly standing up and walking from the tent.

He had his answer tonight as he had for the past two nights. It was like he was conducting a nightly check-up of Jarlaxle's physical and mental state and his companion was growing worse every night. The sight, for some reason, was unbearable. He gave Jarlaxle one last look as he closed the tent flap and walked out to see where Drizzt had gone off to.

Jarlaxle leaned against the soft wall again, closing his eyes and trying to enter Reverie.

_Don't worry, my child_, a sickening voice said in his mind. _You will destroy him soon enough._

_The Hells do you mean by that_, Jarlaxle thought back.

_Soon, my son, _the voice responded. _Soon._


	22. Facing the Unknown

**The Lesser Evil: Hooligan's Holiday**

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of R.A. Salvatore/Wizards of the Coast ©. I don't own them; I'm just examining all their possibilities.

**Chapter 22: Facing the Unknown**

The tracks led away from the camp, their owner was obviously stomping off swiftly before running.

Entreri stayed one knee over the tracks over the dead, dry grass; the shape clearly humanoid, the average size of an elf's foot, and bearing the same tread as Do'Urden's favorite pair of traveling boots.

The assassin rubbed his beard in contemplation, looking from the tracks to the small plume of smoke on the hillside about three miles away.

The drow stormed away from the camp less than an hour ago for whatever reason. Maybe he wanted to walk off his rage, a surprisingly constructive way to deal with his temper. Maybe he was going hunting, looking for more goblins or some other creature he could hack apart.

His destination, however, was likely toward that smoke plume that sent a subtle, yet faintly obvious aroma of cedar smoke and herb marinated beef. There was little doubt who it belonged to and there was little doubt Drizzt would probably want to have matters with the Brute Squad over and done with at last; or as done as they could be.

Entreri clenched his fist, looking out to the tracks and flexing his leg muscles to walk in that direction; though straining even more to stay still.

If Do'Urden had crossed that final line and was ready to off himself or a village of people, Entreri wanted to be in a position to enact damage control in whatever form it took. On the bizarre occasion that a moment alone would actually do him some good, it was probably best he not get involved and give him a wide berth lest progress be hindered.

If the drow was indeed dealing with the lackeys of Bane and Malar, the human thought with a grimace, that was an entirely different monster.

On one hand, he wanted to hear every word, every plot, and every possible growl, curse, and clash of sword for all of it would determine their fates and course of action for the rest of the journey. Entreri was in too precarious a position with this entire mission to let any intelligence go ignored and leave himself open for whatever plots all parties had in store.

On the other hand, it was Do'Urden's mess to deal with not his. He may have been the second blade, whatever the Hells that meant if it was a legitimate title at all, but Drizzt was the champion approaching two other champions.

And he was an infamously unstable individual with a tendency to hack apart anything or anyone that so much as looked at him wrong. If he meant to tear every member of the Brute Squad limb from limb it could have less than favorable implications. The same went for the drow himself getting torn apart by the blackguard, the psychotic ranger, or anyone else they had tailing after them.

But then again Entreri never recalled agreeing to be Do'Urden's babysitter.

The assassin gave a harsh sigh, standing up and looking back at his own, more humble camp. Mazn'reysla sat facing away from him, his slender black hands gently resting on his ankles that had been crossed across his thighs. Judging by his slow, deep breaths and lack of movement it was likely he was in Reverie.

Entreri stared at the priest with a half smirk; the party was all in this unstable place with foes around every tiny corner and he felt contended enough to take a peaceful Reverie. Maybe that was what peace looked like, or maybe that was the face of stupidity as well. Maybe the two were one in the same.

The assassin's gaze fell to the brown tent a few feet to the side of the priest, though as soon as his black eyes met the tent they were shifting to the ground in front of him. He was just in that tent a few minutes ago facing a once strong and wily drow being destroyed from the inside by a monster. Despite every item of cold logic and reason in his calculating brain, that reality cut deep.

Then again, he never exactly volunteered to be Jarlaxle's babysitter either.

Entreri let out a low growl, kicking the dirt with his boot before spinning around and looking out at the plume of smoke from what was likely the Brute Squad's camp. Shaking his head, he walked forward; following Do'Urden's tracks for about fifty feet with a determined stride…and swiftly coming to a halt.

It would be best of you stayed here, Entreri thought to himself; an overwhelming feeling of uncertainty with a hint of dread made his chest heavy and his legs frozen where they stood.

He looked back over at the camp, seeing Mazn'reysla and the tent undisturbed and exactly in place. He wanted to turn back and at least within sight of the camp…though what was the point.

Regardless of whether he stayed at the camp or found Do'Urden on the plain, his overall presence on this entire mission was a moot point.

He gave another frustrated sigh, fully allowing himself a thought that had flown through his head on many occasions during the past four days. He was a warrior awaiting battle and surrounded by the machinations of gods and wizards. His blades had only tasted blood and steel on a few occasions over the past four days and all of those times in simple skirmishes in which he was merely a tool.

It was one thing for him to act on another's order's and still be in control of his position, though acting on someone else's whims while not knowing the true nature of the mission or what plans were in store for him was beyond infuriating.

Once again, he thought for the thousandth time, this was all happening because he accepted a mission on blind understanding…or Vhaeraun forced him on this mission with blind understanding.

Entreri kicked the ground again, clenching his teeth and grimacing at the reality of it all. Here he was merely a tool of higher powers and only used when he was needed while priests and wizards schemed around him. Otherwise he was helpless; though leaving was hardly an option…or was it.

Or you just haven't found your place yet and accepted everything that was handed to you without question, he thought.

Though a place as what; a pawn for a trickster drow god who was conscripting him into service at the expense of his soul, though maybe all that was a bluff too. Artemis hardly put any stock into the words of the gods or their priests…especially when the clerics of Tyr would call his father a voice of righteousness right after he came back to the temple after…

Entreri stomped on his right foot and practically ran in the direction of Do'Urden's tracks, though the cold feeling in his chest made him stop again.

He reached to the ground and picked up a large rock, throwing it against the hill with a grunt. Why did he stop? Why couldn't he move forward?

He allowed himself to sit on a nearby boulder and take a few breaths in a moment of peace that slowed his heart a bit and cleared a small portion of the fog in his mind. Entreri thought about standing again and continuing on his course, though for some reason he couldn't do that.

He sighed again, slapping his hand against his thigh in angry impatience. A sudden thought, however, stilled his movement and made his blood freeze.

Entreri rested his shaking hands on his thighs, taking a few breaths and allowing his tense muscles to relax a bit. He thought of finding Drizzt again, though the cold feeling in the center of his chest returned.

He concentrated on the sensation for a moment, trying to take a few more breaths and clear what was likely tension.

"And why should I stay?" he whispered to himself, though visualizing the question going to the cold in his chest.

The cold became more pronounced as one word crossed through his mind: protection.

Protection from what, he silently thought to himself.

Images of gushing blood, black flesh, and bared steel flashed through his mind; though the image if champagne blond hair floating in a river of blood as cloudy red eyes gaped open gained more of his attention.

In a second Entreri was on his feet and running back to the campsite, only to see Mazn'reysla in his usual Reverie position and the outline of Jarlaxle still in the tent.

He stepped back and took a few more breaths, trying to figure out what the Hells just flashed through his brain. It was the cold, he thought, the cold making its presence known the moment he tried to leave the campsite.

It was the same, cold prickle he felt each time he was in the presence of either one of the blackguard Wenthias' tiefling sons; the same cold prickle that stabbed through his body before the devils attacked their ship on the Dragonmere. Now that same cold prickle foretold an ill fate for Mazn'reysla; and maybe was alerting him to the growing presence of another force of darkness threatening them.

Entreri gave a sneer that formed into a smile as the realization came to him at last; he had a tool at his disposal. He never felt the presence of such forces before until recently…until recently dying and being brought back to life. He had heard tales of how such trauma had left those put through those experiences with an extra power or two; sometimes psionic, sometimes arcane, sometimes a blessing, and sometimes a curse.

Such was the case with Artemis Entreri, though he was tired of recoiling from that which he perceived as a direct threat. He had stuck his head in the proverbial sand for the past four days, or was that the past forty-seven years. It was time to face this reality head on.

He crept toward the tent; pulling a down a small corner of the canvas with his finger, and staring at Jarlaxle's sitting form.

Where are you, Moril, he thought to himself, posing the question to the cold feeling in his chest and not panicking when his vision slightly shifted.

-------------

"Tell me, little man, have you ever fucked a corpse?" Fielder asked, poking the beef shank on the fire with a serving fork and nodding when clear juice oozed out.

"I truly cannot say I've had that experience," Regis replied, managing a bemused smile and putting another stitch into the town seam on his cotton trousers.

"Good to hear," Fielder replied, waving the fork at him with a smirk, "You know someone could animate the dead thing you're fucking and it could bite something off. Not like I've ever had that experience of course."

"Of course," Regis replied with as loose a snicker as he could manage.

The first time one of these bizarre turns of conversation occurred was absolutely horrifying to the halfling. After two days of travel and witness to a string of these statements from the human ranger, being asked "have you ever eaten another halfling" was merely Fielder's way of starting conversation and not intended as a threat. More "normal" individuals would ask about his family or his favorite soup to start conversation.

It was a thought Regis had to keep burned in his brain as a way to not tremble as he had the first time.

"Fielder, no everyone appreciates you're rather…unique observations," Sir Wenthias said evenly, looking up from the leather bound book in which he had been writing for the last hour. Regis had yet to determine if it was a journal or just a source of paper for mundane messages. "It might be considered rude and downright vulgar."

"It's not a problem at all, sir," Regis said, knotting off his last stitch. "I'm not prudish. In fact vulgar conversation can be enlightening conversation."

"Wise little guy," Fielder said with a grin.

"Quite true," the blackguard said with a polite smile. "You are indeed a connoisseur of sociability, Master Regis."

"Whatever the fuck that means," Fielder muttered, giving the meat another turn on the spit.

Regis snickered and hid his relieved sigh, cutting the thread and picking up the small leather pouch in which he kept his small sewing kit. He glanced back to see the blackguard's tiefling son Asorath lying in the grass; his hands casually folded over his stomach as he let out gentle snores while in the midst of a peaceful nap.

The tiefling had changed his hair to blond to match his fine black tunic and trousers as he was fond of doing. Just an hour ago his hair was jet black, though he apparently felt too monochromatic.

The company's wizard Linuin was leaning against a rock next to Asorath and studying his spell book. Occasionally his thin, yet knobby fingers would lightly practice the gesture for a particularly difficult spell.

This group was hardly the typical image of a group of villains advancing toward an enemy; every member of the party acted as if they were merely going on a hike. No one was wearing any armor heavier than a few leather shirts. Even the blackguard now reclined in a plain, white tunic and cotton trousers. Moril was never discussed and mention of everyone's respective god was done in typical daily praise and not extensive appeasement rituals.

It was the reality that made Regis more nervous by the hour. Despite the constant aura of calm that exuded from the party, he could smell the calm before the storm. Plans were in place and every piece was slowly being put into position. He had no evidence or testimony to validate his fears, though the dread in his heart was growing. They were getting ready for the manure to hit the windmill, as the old farmer saying went; whatever form that took was not quite clear.

It was the entire reason he was with this group at all.

He would assume he was being held captive, though this was probably the most relaxed captivity he had ever suffered…unlike being tied to a pole by Artemis Entreri, who would regularly make terrible threats to his body and his friends.

A twinge of phantom pain went through the two fingers that were actually missing thanks to Artemis' terrible dagger; a moment he cared not to think on as he hoped the man was gone from his existence…though he was not by any means. Two days ago, the same assassin who haunted his dreams held him as those cold, black eyes bored through him once again.

Another twinge went through his body, though this one from a large bruise on his leg; a reminder of the last contact he had with a friend he thought lost to him forever. Drizzt Do'Urden was alive, though only in body; he now stood a broken man only held up by a pervading malice that replaced his former warmth and mirth. And now he and Entreri, a man he once cursed and vowed to scourge from the world, stood side by side.

That reality pained him more than any memory of Artemis Entreri's dagger and it was all coming at once.

Drizzt was his friend, his companion; a brave and valiant warrior who was above all a true and caring friend. Now he was a monster…though he was still alive. It was a thought that gave Regis a small amount of happiness despite all the tragedy.

If someone told him a year ago that Twinkle's shards being delivered to Mithral Hall was in no way an indication of Drizzt's death, he would have cried out for joy irregardless of what new companions or philosophy his drow friend took. Regis would have not cared about his cold stare, his aura of death, and his apparent service to a vile drow god; he would only have cared about Drizzt Do'Urden, period, every ounce of black flesh, white hair, and lavender eye.

Yet his judgment made him chastise his long lost friend, as his judgment likely drove him away in the first place. Regardless, there was the whole matter of Jordani's blood being on his hands…as an act of self defense…that was taken too far. Regis didn't even want to think on Jordani; a reality that would have paralyzed him if he thought on it…much like Drizzt's reaction to Catti-brie's murder.

Regis managed a sigh, clearing his horrible thoughts and looking back at his "captors" if they could even be considered that. It was another thought that made his head ache a bit more; here he was surrounded by a group of hospitable and personable individuals who all served gods of tyranny, slaughter, and wickedness. His guard was at its highest, though his unease was surprisingly starting to wane.

Two days ago he was cowering in an alleyway in Saerloon; his leg aching as much as his heart. Drizzt had grabbed him by the neck and thrown him off a building, though he did not kill him outright. Regardless, he lay in an alley for nearly two hours of weeping and trembling.

The sight of two menacing-looking men leaning over him with weapons ready was only inevitable.

He barely heard a word they said, his emotions so frayed after his best friend betrayed him…or merely reacted to the strong judgment that drove him to madness in the first place. The pulsing of the silver shurikens in his belt, the shurikens he took from Jordani's corpse, corresponding with the magic in the black-haired man's mace and the scraggly man's claw bracer told him more than he wanted to know.

"As you see, we all have the same important mission," the black-haired man said, at one point introducing himself as Gherbod Wenthias. "I believe it would be best if you came with us."

It was not a threat per se, though it may well have been under the circumstances. Regis was barely thinking at all when he followed the blackguard; the words "champions," "Bane," and "Malar" producing extra sobs though their presence was only inevitable. By that point Regis didn't care who was friend or foe for they were one in the same by this point.

Now he was traveling with the unholy champions of the Lord of Darkness and the Beastlord; two men schooled in the ways of murder, torture, and threats yet seemed more sociable and hospitable than many more "goodly" characters. He dared think this company was preferable to the fractured sniping and grudges that had become the remaining Companions of the Hall.

They were still villains, a reality that haunted Regis constantly. He remembered the way Fielder pulled the intestines out of a farmer on who caught him stealing a shank of beef from his drying house. The way the blackguard would regularly prick Asorath with a dagger every time he made a smart remark also haunted him. Whether the company actually needed him was another matter of stinging doubt; the difference between if he was a necessary slave or even ally or whether he was expendable at any moment.

It was another reality he would have to deal with later, as was the presence of the Masked Lord's apparent champion.

He pushed the painful thought from his head, looking at the plump, juicy roast on the fire. At the moment, his stomach was winning out over his morals. A man died horribly for them to get the meat, though Regis' growling stomach covered the issue, a fact he lamented in a small way. He just couldn't make himself feel guilty; maybe he too was deteriorating after witnessing terrible acts.

Maybe this was how Drizzt felt.

He leaned closer to the fire, inhaling the aroma of rosemary and smoked meat; concentrating on the aroma like a pensive monk would contemplate incense and letting the wonderful smell clear his thoughts. It was a simple pleasure on which he had to hold for the sake of his sanity.

Regis smiled, an image of himself tearing into the juicy, fragrant roast floating through his mind and making him feel infinitely more relaxed.

The smell of burning cloves a moment later made every muscle in his body tighten as a wave of dread pulsated through his small form.

Two brownish-yellow objects flew past his head and landed on the ground with thuds. Regis put his hands over his head and flopped on his belly with a yelp. A moment of panic later, he slowly looked forward and saw a large, glass bottle of what looked like honey mead and a small burlap sack containing a dome-shaped object.

"Well, what have we here?" Sir Wenthias said with an amused smile, putting down his journal and looking behind Regis.

Regis did not want to look behind him, but the light tread of footsteps coming in his direction was too obvious to ignore.

He slowly turned around, keeping on his stomach with his hands over his head; his vision meeting a pair of cold lavender eyes planted right on him.

He gave another yelp, cowering under his arms again.

It's Drizzt, damn you, he thought to himself with a mental kick, your old companion standing completely alive. How dare you recoil from him.

Regis slowly pried his hands from his head, looking up at Drizzt Do'Urden with a renewed bravery.

Drizzt leaned against the trunk of a small pine tree, taking a draw from his clove stick while regarding the group with a calm, yet annoyed expression. His black cape, brown tunic, and black trousers still bore tears from the last battle as his high black boots were caked in mud.

Regis looked carefully and noticed his hair was much shorter than the last time they met; his thick white locks now chopped spikes cut close to his head. The silver rings in his pointed ears and the angry scar along his right cheek more visible, making him truly look like a thug.

"Well met," the drow said in a polite hiss.

"Well met indeed, Master Do'Urden," the blackguard said, rising from the ground and giving a profound bow. "My, isn't this a pleasant surprise."

"Indeed," Drizzt replied, taking another draw and casually blowing a stream in Wenthias' direction. "Let's cut the greetings and formalities; from what I have gathered you wish to parley. I myself appreciate direct action and words as opposed to merely circling around each other like pissed off weasels, so I come for a bit of parley myself."

Regis glanced over at the rest of the party, seeing Fielder watching the action with a dirty grin. Asorath was now awake, propping his head up with his hands as he watched with relaxed interest. Linuin kept his focus on his spell book, though occasionally looked up and shifted uncomfortably.

The halfling slowly turned back around to see Drizzt giving him a few irritated glares as he scanned the rest of Sir Wenthias' group. Sir Wenthias himself remained fixed on the drow; barely blinking, face in a look of smug satisfaction.

"How very astute of you, sir," the blackguard said, leaning down and gathering the bottle of mead and the sack, which he opened to reveal a fresh smelling loaf of wheat bread. "So you are ready to break bread with us I see."

"Breaking bread is better than wasting steel, or so I have learned," Drizzt replied. "Consider it a little peace offering."

Wenthias eyes the bottle, noticing the wire sealing the cap was not broken. He raised the bread to his nose and lightly sniffed it.

"I appreciate your contributions," the Wenthias said pleasantly, yet with a strained tone, "though I sincerely hope you did not leave us with poisoned offerings."

"I personally would consider that rude," Drizzt said. "If I wished you any harm, I would not stoop so low as to use poisons and would make you taste my blade instead."

A snicker was loosed from Fielder's mouth though the rest seemed transfixed on this scene.

Wenthias gave a light chuckle, positioning the loaf of bread under his arm as he twisted the stopped and the wire wound around it from the bottle. Drizzt took another draw, looking down at Regis again before turning his full attention to the Brute Squad.

Regis' presence was like a tiny cut on his finger; not large enough to make him bleed though itching enough to be obvious. He didn't need to ask why Regis was with the group, considering how Artemis baited the blackguard with the hope of another champion's presence. Now Regis was here, likely being dragged along as usual, and apparently Wenthias had achieved his goal; as for to what end, it was the reason why Drizzt kept his hands ready for his scimitars.

He had to believe Wenthias was indeed intending to form an alliance; an army to fight Moril and whatever exploding clowns or other playthings he could conjure. Then again he or Fielder could have been using everyone as sacrifices to their respective wicked gods.

Drizzt took another scan of the company, noting every calm expression, derisive raise of eyebrow, and every glance of casual interest. He felt like he was a novelty on display, or even the main course at a grand dinner. Wenthias' calm demeanor only aggravated him more, though maybe that was why the blackguard was so polite; Bane mandated torture after all, probably not caring what form it took as long as some pain was inflicted.

Wenthias sniffed the contents of the bottle before looking directly at Drizzt with a smile and slowly replacing the cork. Drizzt didn't know whether to roll his eyes, ready his weapons, or simply open his ears. Maybe all were in order.

"Sweet Cormanthyr mead," the blackguard said, leaning down and placing the bottle on the ground.

"I'm sure my priest went through great pains to procure that," Drizzt replied in a strained tone, recalling the moment he found the bottle of mead and sack of bread in his backpack while first leaving Cormanthor. How he already missed the sweet pines and smell of campfires.

"Oh, I certainly mean no offense," Wenthias said as if wounded, leaning down and dropping the loaf of bread as well. "We will save that for our feast, though first we parley. Tell me, sir, what's on your mind?"

"I was informed by my second blade that you wished a type of alliance between our parties," Drizzt said, his typical diplomatic face pasted on. "I will admit I have had serious doubts considering the circumstances."

"I understand," Wenthias said, "especially following that unfortunate incident in the Dragonmere."

"Though I have accepted your claims that the attack was not done by you're hand or your order," Drizzt said, his tone betraying significant doubt. "I am, however, hardly amused when at least four potentially hostile individuals are tracing my every move; especially as our enemy closes in."

"Forgive me for saying, though the presence of Moril seems to reek from your party," Wenthias said in a satisfied hiss. "Or at least from one member. What did your companion do to gain the possession of one so foul?"

Drizzt took a long draw, twisting the stick out, and snickering with every frayed nerve.

"He merely is himself," he replied. "That is the only explanation I have myself, though the results are still the same."

Wenthias nodded in understanding. Regis looked at the blackguard, puzzled. Moril was possessing Jarlaxle?

The halfling resisted the urge to throw it back in Drizzt's face; it was the penalty for being a villain, he thought. His lost companion's pained expression, however, made him bite his tongue.

"Regardless, I assure you we would only be a threat to your company if you became a threat to ours," Wenthias said, his tone becoming darker and firmer.

"That is indeed reassuring," Drizzt said, though clearly still not convinced.

He scanned the company again, eyeing every member as a choking silence fell over the campsite. Drizzt looked down at Regis, fixing his cold gaze on the still-trembling halfling and pointing at him.

"Now how did he become involved in your little party," Drizzt hissed, watching Regis throw his arms around himself and shiver. "As you can tell, he's a fucking coward."

"And Tymora's new champion," Wenthias said, almost floating forward and looming over Drizzt. "He took the Luckmaiden's weapon from the body of her former champion; the one you and Master Entreri took turns slaying."

"You were not there to see the Luckmaiden's champion shoving a dagger into my back completely unprovoked," Drizzt replied evenly.

Wenthias's eyebrows rose in curiosity as he looked down at Regis, who gave a small whimper at the words.

"Regardless, what do you care about one goodly rogue," Drizzt said.

"I care about those who wield the blades of the champions," Wenthias said. "As your second blade should have informed you."

"Even poor Seron Wenthias?" Drizzt asked, noticing the blackguard's subtle wince. "Young paladin cut down with his gold dragon companion and the rest of his companions? I am sure you are celebrating their deaths."

Wenthias picked his head up and gave another one of his polite, yet unnerving smiles.

"I would ask you how you know that name, though yours is a lord of trickery and secrets after all, so I will not pry," the blackguard said. "Though as for the Loyal Fury's chosen paladin…" his voice trailed off into another uncomfortable silence "it is infinitely more complicated, though I know you of all people understand it to your bones."

Drizzt gave the blackguard a calm glare, a part of him understanding where he was going yet not believing it until he heard it himself.

"And why is that?" Drizzt asked darkly.

Wenthias' smile widened as he nodded.

"I believe I have a little peace offering for you," he replied, "though I would prefer to give it to you in private."

Drizzt took another scan of the company, seeing Fielder cut a piece of meat off the roasted shank as a manure-eating grin remained on his face. Asorath came to a sit and quietly snickered, suddenly greatly interested in the conversation. Linuin went back to his spell book, though Regis gazed at the blackguard in horror.

It's a trap, Drizzt screamed at himself.

He leaned over and threw the clove into the fire, his sense of warning still active yet his sense of curiosity getting the better.

"I sincerely hope you're not leaving me with a poisoned offering," Drizzt said.

"I would consider that rude," Wenthias replied, taking a few steps toward the path and stopping before looking at the drow in calm anticipation.

"Don't do this, Drizzt," Regis whispered.

Drizzt regarded the halfling for a moment, before nodding at Wenthias and walking in his direction.

-----------------

It was as if Jarlaxle's form was a dull purple light.

Entreri took a few more breaths to calm his still-pounding heart while concentrating. The call of a crow in the trees behind him took his attention and returned his vision to the normal spectrum.

He sighed hard, lightly kicking his heel in the dirt before turning around and trying a few more breaths.

His hands still shook with the unfamiliar energy, though that was hardly helping his cause. The assassin walked back over to the campsite, looking around for Do'Urden's backpack though he must have still had it on him when he stormed off.

Entreri stood still again, closing his eyes and trying to clear his thoughts once more; an exercise that only mildly helped though his original plan would likely help him more. All he needed was a few sips of wine, mead, or some other liquor the child drow must have hidden in his belongings; not enough to make him drunk but just enough to make him slightly more relaxed than he was now.

_He left behind his flask_, a voice said from somewhere as the cold returned to the pit of his stomach.

Entreri froze where he stood, hands at his weapons as he slowly looked around the camp.

Mazn'reysla remained in his sitting position, though his ebony profile and one red eye was visible through his fine blond hair.

"What in the Hells," Entreri whispered, staring incredulously at the cleric.

_You can hear me_, the voice said again; a voice the assassin recognized as Mazn'reysla's child-like tone. _At last you stopped thinking with your swords for once._

Entreri shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. The little bastard was a psionic; though he didn't feel the typical pressure in his temples that came from any of Kimmuriel's intrusions. In fact it was as if Maz's voice was floating through the planes and not implanted in his brain.

He took another deep breath, concentrating on the cold chill once again.

_What trick is this_, he thought…or said without moving his lips.

Maz's partially visible smile widened.

_Your consciousness has partially entered the astral,_ the cleric responded. _Any normal individual could only do that through spells or hours of concentration. Some of us, however, need no such outside involvement. I have possessed the gift since birth; yours was gained more recently and has to be trained._

_And how in the Abyss did you know that,_ Entreri responded, this new form of communication making him rather uneasy.

_Try your gift around me anytime, and I will always feel your presence, _Mazn'reysla replied with a hint of a sneer. _Though you are playing in dangerous territory; Moril's presence is like a coiled trap; poke in the wrong place and you will not enjoy the results. _

_You're telling me this now,_ the assassin replied.

_Though the aura sensing you were doing could hardly hurt, _Maz said with an astral sigh. _I'm sure the clown would rather his presence was known to the world. Now as I was saying, Drizzt's flask is under the blanket._

Entreri sneered at him before walking back over to Drizzt's blanket and lifting it up. Sure enough, the flask was partially buried in the sand underneath. He picked it up, brushed off a few grains of sand, and twisted the top off.

A sniff of the contents told him only bourbon was inside and the tap of a small amethyst ring, a trinket he picked up in Baldur's Gate, against the spout did not make the contents glow with the presence of poison.

_Just a few sips, _Maz said. _I do need to teach you some healthier relaxation techniques._

Entreri gave him a bored glare before taking one long swig of the pungent liquor and replacing the cap. That one sip would likely make its mild presence known in roughly an hour, though he had no interest in waiting that long.

He slipped the flask in his belt pouch as he took a few more deep breaths; imagining himself becoming one with the cold chill in his stomach.

The chill grew as his pulse came to a less distracting thump. Entreri slowly turned back to the tent, creeping toward it and once again pulling back the same section of canvas.

He visualized the same dark purple aura surrounding Jarlaxle as he managed to see earlier. Gradually, the mercenary's black form was encased in the dull light; bringing a satisfied smirk from Entreri as he further searched for any indication of the Clown Cultist's presence.

The purple became brighter as a brighter indigo outlined his form; a glow that made the assassin's eyes sting as if it were a hostile force. The indigo light was dim, however, as the deeper purple became darker near the center of Jarlaxle's body. Entreri allowed himself to relax further as he concentrated on the purple; seeing shapes that became clearer and clearer.

The assassin grimaced slightly, now aware that he was essentially looking at Jarlaxle's internal organs.

I guess I know you inside and out, old friend, he thought to himself as he honed his concentration.

The dark purple light emanated from his organs, though the light seemed to gradually darken like a lamp near the end of its oil supply. He concentrated further, a creeping feeling of unease coming over him as the purple light became clearer.

Entropy, he thought. The light was his friend's life force and his life force was rapidly dimming.

Entreri sneered, the bourbon making its mild presence known as he relaxed further and continued his course.

He concentrated further, looking for any sign of Moril's astral presence. He had no idea what he was looking for, though for some reason he knew it would come to him.

You shouldn't be so transfixed and should watch your damn back, his instinct thought, though for some reason he knew no threats loomed around him. His fascination with what he was seeing before him caught the better of him as well.

A black cord caught his attention near Jarlaxle's midsection; a shimmering black artery running from his abdomen through his chest and fading into the rest of the astral.

Like a puppet's string, Entreri thought, concentrating further on the cord.

He knew he was stepping near into dangerous territory on a field in which he has all the experience of an infant. It was best not to get to close to the energy line lest it zap him.

Carefully, he concentrated on the cord, seeing a clear flow of energy…moving out of Jarlaxle's body. He adjusted his position, realizing the cord was drawing from something Jarlaxle's sideways position kept out of view. With another breath, he put the canvas back in place and lightly stepped to the other side of the tent.

Pulling down another section of canvas, he at first saw Jarlaxle in the normal spectrum, his red eyes still open and blinking hard in any attempt at Reverie, though he didn't seem to notice anyone else's presence.

After a moment of concentration, Entreri's astral sight returned, seeing the black cord wrapped around Jarlaxle's liver and slowly drawing some kind of energy. He peered further, seeing past the black cord and into a dark purple shape; the epicenter of the spread of entropy.

Entreri blinked, making sure he was seeing exactly what he thought he was.

Moril's cord was gently wrapped around Jarlaxle's liver as the purple entropy slowly oozed upward. The organ itself was greatly shrunken; a mass of scar tissue and nodules where healthy muscle should have been.

Entreri concentrated further, staring at the diseased liver and desperately trying to find some presence of Moril's inky black cord. Jarlaxle's fading essence was all he could find, essence not dimming with the rate of Moril's feeding but going at its own pace.

Entreri slowly exhaled, examining the rest of his fading life essence and looking at his stomach out of curiosity. This entire mess seemed to start when Jarlaxle fell on that beach near the Dragonmere; pulse weak as he spewed blood. A bleeding stomach ulcer, the clerics said.

No more ulcers were visible on his stomach, though a closer look showed bulging veins in his esophagus that were clearly not healthy, nor did they bear Moril's essence.

Moril's stamp was not on the slow death in Jarlaxle's body; though hundreds of years of poison and the overall toxic environment of the Underdark likely were.

Entreri pulled his vision back in the normal spectrum, examining Jarlaxle for any of the other visible indicators he learned in his assassin training; indicators of a slow death of poison or drinking that could mean a well-placed potion could finish the job as opposed to dirtying one's blade.

Even before the adventure began, even before the destruction of Gond's High House of Wonders, Jarlaxle had not been himself. His witty barbs were becoming more venomous and his responses to Entreri and Drizzt's usual light taunting were delayed and angry instead of being tossed back.

The light rim of yellow around his blinking red eyes, a color the assassin knew had only appeared tonight, told Entreri as much as he needed to know. The faint spider-shaped vein cluster on his bare arm, visible through the tiny stream of light reflecting on his pale skin, sealed his fate.

Jarlaxle's liver had likely been failing for months; a process probably hastened by Moril, or even Gromph.

Though how was that possible, the assassin thought. Jarlaxle drank sparingly and must have had a thousand different wards, spells, and amulets against poison…though he probably had no wards against the foreign, toxic material building up in his liver. He had probably been fed poison by numerous enemies, maybe taking a few bolts or blades coated in toxins. Maybe he was also exposed to any poison he himself may have applied to a drink or a blade.

The toxins never served their immediate purpose, though maybe their results were more delayed.

Maybe Jarlaxle had no idea he was that ill, otherwise he would have done something to stop the process; though what matron of priestess would grant him healing spells for a disease that was likely an indicator of Lolth's disfavor. Maybe Mazn'reysla or any of the other Vhaeraunite clerics knew he was ill and did nothing. Maybe Gromph and Kimmuriel knew full well and were eagerly waiting to watch his slow, painful death.

Maybe that was why Gromph orchestrated a suicide mission.

Entreri turned from the tent and grunted. His traveling companion of the past six years was dying and a necromantic parasite was feeding from his death.

Who would mourn for Jarlaxle, he thought suddenly. What drow or anyone else would lament the death of a shifty, disloyal mercenary who profited from other people's battles? The same people who exploited him for his illness? The same people who knew he was ill and said or did nothing?

It was a reality of death that made Entreri shiver; the horrors of the afterlife weren't the only form of tragedy connected with a man's passing.

Though his death could be reversed, the assassin thought. Maybe to reverse Jarlaxle's death was to rid him of Moril; maybe that entropy was Moril's only source of power. Maybe the clerics would actually have a reason to heal him now.

He looked at Mazn'reysla, whose gaze was again turned forward. The cold returned as an image of Jarlaxle with amber eyes flashed through his brain. Slowly, he looked back at the tent.

Mazn'reysla said he was playing in dangerous territory, though he needed more answers.

Author's Note: Huge thanks to Niere for providing me with medical references for the later part of this chapter.


	23. The Taint of Goodness

**The Lesser Evil: Hooligan's Holiday**

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of R.A. Salvatore/Wizards of the Coast ©. I don't own them; I'm just examining all their possibilities.

**Chapter 23: The Taint of Goodness**

Drizzt shifted his weight on the dry grass, moving his foot away from the rock that had stuck up from the ground and made his heel itch; probably the only movement he had made in the past minute as his eyes were glued to the field in front of him.

"This is an omen of victory," the blackguard said in a bright, yet matter-of-fact tone. "Our token of gratitude has been accepted."

The drow peeled his gaze from the bloody mess in front of him and glanced at the Banite standing to his side. Wenthias' scarred face wore a pleasant smile as he watched the scene in serene joy, like any average individual watching an amusing play. The corner of Drizzt's mouth quirked into a smirk; despite all the politeness and all the painstaking civility, there was no doubting Gherbod Wenthias' true nature.

Drizzt slowly turned his head forward, finding himself admiring the craftsmanship that went into this pristine death trap.

The only thing that interrupted the long expanse of dead grass were the two tall, sharp staves sticking up from the ground as two human men in simple peasants' clothes and flimsy leather armor were still moaning as the last of their life essence oozed down the poles that stuck through their bodies. A hefty man with a thick gray beard twitched a bit as he remained impaled through the center of his chest as his companion, a thinner man who slightly resembled a weasel, had taken the pole through his spine and out his stomach; laying paralyzed but still looking around in horror. Given the position of both staves, both men could be there for hours before death claimed them at last.

Drizzt examined the poles, seeing small indentations in the grass underneath them that looked more like small circles of unending blackness on closer inspection. It looked like the mechanics of a pit trap; placing staves underneath a false ground to spring up when something triggered a draw string or a sense charm. Usually such traps were clumsy and took hours to make, though this one was clean; obviously the result of portable holes implanted with staves that used with what was likely a magic trigger.

"Did you set up the trap in the portable holes or were the holes already equipped before you put them down," Drizzt asked.

"One of Arik's little toys," Wenthias said. "He took them out of his back pack and placed them on the ground; two discs that took the color of the ground on which they were set though they had so much more to them. Rather ingenious I do say. I have already asked him to provide a few more for the moat around Castle Wenthias when we return to the Dalelands. Granted I normally deplore such devices merely used for sport, but they indeed have their uses."

"Hence you did not take me out here to merely see your ranger's toys in action," Drizzt said, looking at Wenthias and clearly boring of chit-chat.

"Oh certainly not," Wenthias said with a small chuckle. "Arik may appreciate a display on the latest killing technology, though such exhibits bore me. No, Master Do'Urden, there is so much more in progress here than meets the eye. And we are indeed fortunate; we walked these lands for hours not even seeing another intelligent humanoid. Now we have two sacrifices. I guess by their armor and the bows on the ground they are hunters just passing through."

"Sacrifices?" Drizzt asked, though the meaning was more than obvious.

He concentrated on the area, his tuned magic senses catching the faint red glow around the staves; a clearly cast circle bearing various markings of fell purpose. Drizzt had seen more demonic markings in his day, though devilish ones were only a few lines different. He looked away for a moment and the red glow vanished from the dark area. He wanted to concentrate more, though Wenthias' small, hand-held glow ball that cast a dim enough light for the human to see yet not be spotted, was disrupting his infrared vision.

"I am surprised the halfling remained with you during your ritual," Drizzt said.

"The halfling merely thought we stopped to pray," Wenthias said. "He merely walked a few feet away while Arik laid hands on the ground and I cast the circle."

"So this was a group effort," Drizzt said. "I assume half the spoils go to Bane and the other half goes to Malar."

"These men's souls will go to Bane alone," Wenthias said. "Arik's church has different rituals regarding sacrifice, while it is traditional for those of us who revere the Black Lord to offer sacrifice on the eve of our crucial battles."

"And Fielder willingly aided your sacrifice?" Drizzt said, cocking an eyebrow.

"I cannot speak for Master Madsalar, though I assume it was in the name of mutual benefit," Wenthias said. "A token of his support for our mutual cause."

Drizzt cocked an eyebrow, getting more than a little annoyed at all the diplomatic euphemisms when clearly more was going on.

"Mutual benefit meaning he remains the faithful servant," Drizzt said, wanting to push the blackguard's buttons to see if he would indeed flinch. "Or at least acts like it."

"Arik is hardly a servant," Wenthias said, his voice still pleasant though taking more of a strain. "He acts of his own will and thus far I have had little reason to doubt him. In truth, he has been a blade on the retainer of my household for the past year; when Malar called him to service, it was only natural he travel with our party. He has given me little reason to doubt him thus far and if I did, remedies would be taken."

"Fair enough," Drizzt said, the meaning was clear. "It only makes sense your family's favorite hiresword would accompany you; two birds, one stone, and all that.

"I have hardly seen him a mere hiresword," Wenthias said. "Forgive me if I am speaking knowledge that you already possess though Bane and Malar have been allies for several millennia, calling on each other for aid whenever the circumstance arises. For two of their servants to work together as well is not unheard of"

Drizzt gave a half-smirk at the information, which could bode well or ill at the present time. Regardless of how Moril had angered Malar, it was probably natural the Beastlord would side with his hulking friend Bane if called, rewarded, or conscripted; or at least Bane would grab him by the scruff of the neck and make him aid the cause. It was likely Fielder was as much of a pawn as Drizzt was, or maybe all of them were.

In any case, Malar joining the cause on the insistence of Bane was a bit easier to digest than the remote, yet real possibility of Malar acting on the behest of another one of his old friends; one who laughed at Bane's order and spun chaos in her monstrous legs.

"No, I cannot say I was aware of that," Drizzt said.

"One has to be more studied in the ways of Bane and Malar to know such information," Wenthias said. "Alas yours is a different culture, though not completely removed. There is another lesser known legend that speaks of my lord and your lord having momentary conversation at the least and a loose alliance at the most."

"I had heard such a legend," Drizzt said, his patience waning by the second. "Though as you say, I suppose Bane and Vhaeraun are the only ones truly privy to those facts. Maybe this is why you have interest in an alliance between us; and I doubt 'mutual benefit' is the only alleged reason."

Drizzt turned his head to the blackguard, who kept his gaze on the "sacrifices," though his mouth quirked into an amused smirk.

"Before any of this continues, let me make one thing absolutely clear," Drizzt said. "I refuse to play your pawn or allow any of my companions to play pawns no matter how close our gods have or have not been. Maybe I am not giving you credit…"

"Though you are indeed justified in your doubts," Wenthias said, glancing at Drizzt for a moment. "All of the living champions and their parties, the halfling excluded of course, serve lords of darkness and there is rarely honor among monsters. However, just because our parties are hardly of a light nature, that does not mean we cannot cooperate. Maybe this is for mutual benefit, yes, though I have a strange feeling there more involved here than merely relying on each other's swords and it certainly does not involve one playing lackey to the other."

"How so," Drizzt said, looking at Wenthias and seeing him give a polite, yet somehow knowing smile.

"I believe this all goes beyond merely exterminating a fiend in the service of our gods," the blackguard said. "There are higher forces at work and this journey has been for our benefit as well as that of our respective lords. To what extent, I cannot say; though I feel our course has a much grander end than eliminating the one known as Moril."

Drizzt looked back at the staves, hiding his annoyed expression. Now Wenthias was speaking in enigmas…or was he? He was right; so much more was involved now than just a group of men on a hunting trip.

"I can tell you agree," Wenthias said, stepping closer. "I know you have more at stake in this; maybe possible accolades by the Masked Lord, a hero's welcome by your kin among the Auzkovyn, or maybe just personal gratitude. I feel the most obvious gain or loss will have everything to do with the other dark elf in your party who is currently under Moril's possession."

Drizzt managed a straight face while his nerves twisted with the very mention of Jarlaxle.

"I do not know if he is a servant, a kinsman, or merely a fellow soldier in Vhaeraun's service," Wenthias continued. "Though, if I may be so bold in saying, I get the sense he is dear to you. I can just read your expression every time he is mentioned."

"My kinsman, if you must know, is a mercenary," Drizzt said with a bit more force than he intended, though the blackguard was truly raising his hackles. "He solicits his services to the most dangerous creatures in the Realms and has his own massive ego to boot. As a result, he has gotten himself in over his neck with the wrong people his entire life. I know not how he ended up in his current predicament, though, to be quite honest with you, it surprises me in the least Moril is one of them."

"Though you do not wish to see him harmed and I can see it is for reasons that do not necessarily involve how useful he is to you or your cause," Wenthias said. "Whether this shames you to think on it or you want to keep silent on the matter in general, your fall has not removed your capacity for emotion."

Drizzt took a step away, facing the smiling Wenthias and giving him a tired glare, though a part of him was getting ready for a fight.

"Oh I mean no offense," Wenthias said, his smile softening as he put up a hand in peace. "I am merely making an observation. Darkness is strong in your soul; I can feel its power teeming through your essence. The taint of goodness will always linger, however; a lingering weakness that can actually be used as a strength that many of your dark opponents will not possess, yet your light opponents will be drawn in and think you less of a threat."

Drizzt stared hard at the human, tiring of his smarm by the minute and getting more and more ready to draw his swords though he caught himself before his hands slid in that direction. Instead he sneered, gaining another unnerving smile from Wenthias as he tried to come up with his next action with a more diplomatic bent while fighting off the Hunter.

"That is rather bold, sir, though you are catching me at a good time; for I am not shoving your words down your throat at the point of a sword," Drizzt said, his bile surprisingly waning though his patience nearly gone. "I would ask what in the Hells gives you the right to make such assumptions about me, though I suspect I know exactly where in the Hells you got your information. Our lords are fond of flapping their divine jaws at the wrong times."

"You are indeed correct," Wenthias said. "My lord has told me much about you. I also take no offense to your description of our gods 'flapping their divine jaws' as it were; even if I do believe it shows a degree of disrespect for our masters, we are of different cultures after all. Regardless, I am at liberty to say my lord takes a great interest in you."

Drizzt sneered, not liking this whole matter one bit and feeling his paper-thin sense of control waning. Logic and curiosity, however, made the Hunter sit down for a moment. There were probably several reasons Bane would take interest in him, though all of them likely involved him as a slave, a trophy, or a corpse; or maybe there was something more going on.

A sudden memory chimed through his brain, a recollection of one of Mazn'reysla's favorite expressions: "The death of a soul screams to the gods." Knowing Mazn'reysla, those words were no mere adage. The reasons why Bane knew anything about him were only obvious.

A small light of realization shone in his mind once again; his brain suddenly piecing together several more clues.

"Fine, you have me there," Drizzt said with a small laugh, hiding his vindictive sneer as the realization. "As Bane probably had you at one point in ancient history, if I am not being too bold."

Wenthias cocked an eyebrow, his smirk returning.

"I could be speaking completely out of turn," Drizzt continued, mocking the blackguard's polite manner of speech as he crossed his arms; his vindictive smirk crawling upward. "But how long has it been since you fell out of favor with the Wenthias family; not your little household in Cormanthor but the real Wenthias family wherever they may be, or were maybe even cast out at the point of a sword."

Wenthias' eyes narrowed as his smirk widened.

"You were once a paladin, were you not?" Drizzt said, enjoying the uncomfortable look on the human's smug face, "paladin in the service of Torm, just like little Seron and his band of companions. If I may go further, I would assume he was sent on his mission with an extra task of bringing your head back home as a trophy on your family wall; maybe Bane charged you with smiting him as well."

Wenthias said nothing at first, though after a moment his smile widened. He chuckled and gave a slow clap.

"You are quite observant," Wenthias said. "And you are indeed correct. Seron was my nephew; another paladin in a long line of Wenthias men; though the family's worship of Torm is of course more recent as Torm only attained deityhood after the Time of Troubles."

"So they just served themselves before then," Drizzt said.

"Before the Time of Troubles, most of my family served Tyr, save for my Uncle DuMare, who was a priest in the service of Bane," Wenthias said in a matter-of-fact tone. "His treachery was well hidden until 1358 when he chose to lead a rebellion, taking advantage of the lack of magical powers. The revolt ended, unfortunately, after the mortal Torm slew Bane in avatar form; though not before delivering most of the family to oblivion or the worship of Bane's seed Xvim."

"Though irregardless of the name or form, I assume you were part of the rebelling team," Drizzt said, somewhat intrigued.

"No, I fought in defense of our house, though I will admit I admired my traitorous uncle," Wenthias said. "He was actually there, teaching me about life and pride, while my father was out trying to smite the evils of the world hundreds of miles away. He taught me to be a man, how to live with discipline and respect. He was also the only real encouragement and solace I had after I buried my wife when she succumbed in childbirth, our newborn son following her the next day."

Drizzt tried not to roll his eyes, though a larger part of himself begged him to pay attention. Maybe they indeed had much in common.

"The entire family knew I was close with him," Wenthias continued. "Apparently I did not fight enthusiastically enough for my kin's liking and my depression and nihilism looked a little too much like villainy. I was cast out after a year of suspicious gazes; I became a hiresword trying to feed myself while my family rebuilt itself in the name of the new hero god Torm. Gradually I found my way to my beloved uncle's new compound in the Dalelands, Bane found his way out of Xvim's body, and I found my way into the position of high blackguard."

"And young Seron was thence weaned on the goodly doctrines of Torm," Drizzt said with a nod. "Let me guess he was around, what, twenty-four?"

"Twenty-Three," Wenthias said. "He was 5 when I left in shame. His father bore me little love and I can imagine the stories he told."

"And he would be sent out to kill Moril and likely his traitorous uncle, possibly the same scenario with you," Drizzt said, pushing aside his sentiment in favor of cold practicality. "And you ultimately got to your nephew first, or at least little Toamy did. Tell me, kind gentleman, who cut Seron's throat and killed the young gold dragon to make a fitting casket for a truly noble paladin."

"That is indeed bold, sir," Wenthias said, his voice strained tight as his calm look took on more of a sneer. "Though I maintain my story; I would rather Seron stayed alive to contribute magics and powers against Moril that only a paladin could. You know of whence I speak; you felt that same energy searing your flesh after a mere shuriken was thrown into your leg by Tymora's former champion; or as was reported to me by my beholder allies. He could have been an extra weapon in our cause; but his life and purpose was wasted by our quarry."

"And Toamroth had absolutely nothing to do with that at all," Drizzt said. "If he received corrupted orders by Moril using Bane's voice to come after us, why would it be so bold to assume those orders included going after the champions of Torm and Selune as well? Apparently we were all traveling the same waterway at the same moment."

"And I would assume you and your companion were quite the challenge," the blackguard said. "If you must know my whereabouts during that whole ugly scene, Arik and I were traversing the coast of the Dragonmere on land when Toamroth and Linuin went missing. I called upon numerous resources at my disposal to locate them; though the first image I received was of Toamroth, my child, being cut to pieces by your kinsman. I immediately dispatched a few more reliable sentries, to recover his body."

"Oh yes, those pleasant eye tyrants," Drizzt said with a grimace.

"The only way I knew of what happened to my nephew was what was reported to me by the beholders," Wenthias continued, his polite demeanor even more strained. He did not just sound angry, he sounded almost sad. "I transported to the ship and found the carnage you investigated with your companions. Then Arik and I set the ship ablaze, the most fitting burial there was for all souls lost."

Drizzt nodded, understanding the human's words though hardly buying them.

"The taint of goodness still lingers in your soul, does it not," Drizzt said. "Fortunate for little Toamy you were following our every move and managed to find us."

"Though maybe Selune's champion, Torm's champion, and let us not forget Tymora's champion were also following you in a similar manner," Wenthias said in a matter-of-fact tone. "Have you not noticed all the champions see, to have been traveling in the same direction? How am I to know you have not been tailing my party? Maybe I should put you on a stave for lingering around me, though that would be beyond foolish because I understand there are much higher forces at work."

Drizzt stood still and nodded. He was absolutely right; it was as if all parties had encountered each other at one point during the journey. Vhaeraun's champions had run into all the other champions; while all the while Moril followed them in Jarlaxle's body. There were too many coincidences and the fact Toamroth allegedly acted on Moril's bidding only made the connection more obvious.

Drizzt looked at Wenthias and expected to see his usual polite smile, though instead the blackguard wore a serious gaze. He did not look angry at him, though likely angry at the circumstances and Drizzt blamed him for nothing. Drizzt bit his lower lip and slowly nodded.

"You have a definite point, for we have encountered similar during this entire journey," Drizzt said. "Maybe the first theory is Moril has found a way to toy with all of us. If Toamroth's attack was due to Moril, I wonder how many of the other incidents, including Jordani Pilazi's attack on my person, were all related to Moril in some way."

"Hence my earlier statement," Wenthias said. "We must all hang together lest we hang apart. The closer we are to each other and the more we know of our enemy the less power he has over us. Instead our powers combine and become one stronger mass against whatever it is he possesses."

Drizzt nodded; the wisdom in those words was obvious. Moril may have been a drow with a bag of tricks, though that bag may have been enormous. It was too dangerous to underestimate him in any way even if he was merely pushing the right buttons on the right people.

"I care not what has happened before this night," Wenthias continued, his voice taking a chilling calm as his gaze turned back to the staves, "and I am willing to take your word Jordani Pilazi died in an act of self defense; though from here on, we need to keep our swords pointed at the enemy and not each other."

Drizzt gazed at the staves, seeing the men squirming less as the chill of death made itself known in their hollow faces. The faint glow of the magic circle around the sacrifices became brighter as the runes and inscriptions became more obvious.

A part of him wanted to trust the blackguard's words, though a part of him wanted to either run or skewer him; the latter would probably be a poor move. He tried to think of the myriad of ways this path could ultimately lead to betrayal and every reason and indication made sense, though somehow he suspected none of his theories would play out.

It was all because Wenthias was a servant of law, the drow thought in another realization. He had little reason to lie to him and all of his actions were impeccably rehearsed and ordered. Was he trying to corrupt him? It wasn't as if Drizzt hadn't tasted that sweet nectar already and Wenthias knew that…maybe. Maybe he wanted to bring him into the service of Bane, though Drizzt knew that would be highly unlikely.

The blackguard already told him several times he wanted all champions to stay alive to fight Moril. Maybe he planned to kill him after Moril was dead, though he was being way too kind to someone he was about to enslave and clearly knew flattery would hardly win Drizzt out. The notion Wenthias was in league with Moril was laughable; Bane's ilk was too ordered and too proud to fall in with a self-proclaimed cultist who showed nothing but chaos.

Every motivation behind a possible betrayal was predictable and could be easily countered with reason. That was the main difference between the philosophy of Wenthias, or even Entreri for that matter; everything depended on perfect order. For Drizzt, however, everything could be compromised and improvised; there was plenty of room for change with chaos unlike the stifling decrees of law.

Such was the creed of Fielder as well and such was ultimately the creed of Moril; chaos could easily meet chaos though maybe law would provide the perfect counter. As for neutrality, it was either watching from the side like Mazn'reysla…or being converted to chaos like Jarlaxle.

The reality was becoming more obvious, or at least Drizzt hoped it was; staying by the side of the other champions was a wise idea despite all of his inner warnings against such an alliance. If Wenthias' malicious intentions were more set on Moril than Vhaeraun's party, it could prove to be a fruitful alliance. If the blackguard's intention was indeed treachery, Drizzt knew his designs were so reliant on ordered planning they could be countered.

It was a win-win situation that sounded ideal in Drizzt's mind, yet his guard was hardly lowered; the increasing glow from the circle only made his hands closer to his swords.

He took a subtle glance at Wenthias, seeing the blackguard's cold brown eyes take on a small flicker as they focused on the staves. Drizzt sighed and looked ahead, seeing the red glow slowly take a greenish tinge. His whole reasoning of the situation went deathly quiet; there were more forces at work here than just the scheming of a few characters.

The red markings were now a glowing green as a green mist rose from the circle and crept upward like licking flames. The mist thickened as is crept over the bodies of the two men.

Gasping screams, more akin to ethereal animals than humans, emitted from the throats of the two men as the thick, green fog crept over their forms. Clothing, armor, and boots crumbled to fine dust; weathered, yet still soft human flesh hardened to leather stretched over gasping skulls. Limbs twisted like thick roots over a rock and within the course of a few seconds their bodies were only recognizable as human by the few twisted fingers and blank eye sockets.

Drizzt looked on the scene in a quiet awe; the destruction's power emanated from the very earth, a hulking pillar of green death that rendered all in its path twisted corpses. Drizzt gave a glance to Wenthias, only to meet his eyes for a moment before they turned back onto the rising green mist with a self-righteous smile.

"Bane has accepted our sacrifice," the blackguard said.

The green mist rose high in the air, bathing the entire landscape in a green light. Drizzt looked around the area, soon seeing Fielder walking through the trees and stopping to watch the scene with a wicked laugh. Another branch swayed and Regis' small form slowly stepped out; his green eyes wide with shock as his mouth gaped open.

Drizzt's gaze returned to the ever glowing mass of green light, part of him intrigued and a part of him legitimately nervous. He took a few deep breaths and managed to calm his nerves, envisioning himself being slowly enveloped by a shield of calming shadows. A tingling chill started from his toes and crawled up his leg, caressing his torso, brushing against his cheeks and through his short, white hair as he imagined himself invulnerable to physical and psychic attacks.

_Wise idea, _a voice familiar voice chimed through his mind. _Though I have a strange feeling you may enjoy this._

Drizzt managed a smirk against the wave of unease at the rising mist. He opened his senses to the comforting shadows, his unease lifting considerably as he felt the cool caress against his skin.

A spiral formed in the mist. A horizontal line flew upwards and rapidly formed into a pair of bony wings. The swirl formed into a torso, a head, and two pairs of powerful limbs as a large humanoid figure glided from the green light, soaring toward the company below.

Drizzt kept his jaw steady and managed to remain calm with a few breaths as he looked over at Wenthias. The blackguard's calm expression immediately twisted to the clenched jaw and wide eyes of sudden fear, though his features suddenly brightened into a large grin as his eyes danced with malicious glee.

"Falzul," Wenthias said, his voice a quiet gasp.

The figure swooped down and landed before the group, a pair of yellow eyes falling on Wenthias, then the two behind them, then focused on Drizzt.

Drizzt's lavender eyes focused on the being; a pair of slender, yet muscled legs planted him on the ground. The creature's legs were loosely encased in a black and red waistcloak around his tightly muscled stomach. The creature's powerful frame, tight muscles, and handsome face made him look like an average human, though his smoke gray skin, glowing red hair, long, black horns, and large span of black bat-looking wings made him clearly something else.

It was an incubus, though more likely its devilish cousin known as an erinyes. The power emanating from this beautiful creature was strong, yet Drizzt savored every moment beside it as if basking in a warm fire.

"Welcome to the outer plane, Falzul," Wenthias said, his steady voice straining not to crack, coming to one knee and bowing low. "We are most honored by your presence."

Falzul's thick lips turned up in a smirk as he peeled his yellow eyes from Drizzt and looked at the blackguard.

"Indeed," the devil said. "I take it you expected your casting to produce a small lemure."

"I did not think myself so worthy to receive the company of one as great as you, Falzul," Wenthias said with a wicked little laugh. "This is indeed a pleasant surprise."

Drizzt stood and stared at the devil, whose yellow eyes fixed on him. Fear coursed through his blood for a moment, though the cold was replaced hot annoyance.

"Our lord has taken a great interest in your progress," Falzul said. "He wanted to be sure you were keeping your course steady and by the presence of the mortals around me I see you have accomplished something; whether you do something with these resources will be the next test."

"I assure you, my lord, progress is being made," Wenthias said.

"Oh yes progress," Drizzt said rolling his eyes and taking a step toward the devil, "the progress of summoning a higher fiend to merely stare at me." Drizzt gave Wenthias a cold glare, the blackguard's wide smirk only making him madder. "You never gave me a proper introduction to your friend here. Tut, tut, tut, what manners we lack, kind sir."

"I am known as Falzul, keeper of the Barren Gates, lieutenant to the Black Hand," Falzul said in a chilling voice. Drizzt remained focused on Wenthias, yet the caress of a clawed hand over the side of his face was a bit harder to ignore.

Drizzt slowly turned around to see those yellow eyes an inch from his; the devil's clawed index finger gently stroking down his cheek.

"And you are Drizzt Do'Urden; ordained blade of the brat god Vhaeraun," Falzul said, his sulfurous breath hot in Drizzt's face. "My lord has taken a great interest in you as well."

"So I have heard," Drizzt replied, leaning his cheek closer to the devil's claw to give him better access. "Though now I have someone in my presence who is a little closer to the Black Lord instead of idiots who just speak for him, and I find that reassuring."

"Reassuring, eh?" the devil said, whispering in Drizzt's ear and caressing his hot cheek against his. "I smell the fear in you drow. Your heart pounds like a drum."

"I just get a little excited when I am in the presence of pure darkness," Drizzt said with a smirk, playfully leaning his face closer to the devil's. "It just gives me a big stiff one."

A bony, clawed hand tightly cupped the bulge in his trousers. Drizzt gave a small wince in surprise, followed by a snicker from the erinyes. Drizzt took a few deep breaths to calm himself, becoming more relaxed though still on high guard. The devil's hand tightened between his legs and he felt an increased urgency in his flesh.

"You like that," the devil said. "Either you indeed are a brave one, or fear turns you on."

"I'll take all of the above," Drizzt replied, his urgency building as was his desire for the thing to let go of that rather sensitive part of his body.

The erinyes hand warmed and an energy flowed from his palm and fingertips that made Drizzt sigh in bliss, though the devil's hand remained still. The pulsing energy became more intense as Falzul once again rubbed his gray cheek against his ebony skin.

"Are you my gift," Drizzt said, though his voice came in gasps. "Why would Bane send a pleasure devil to a mere dark elf?"

"Because he felt such base desires would entertain such a base creature," Falzul replied, brushing his soft lips against the tip of Drizzt's pointed ear. "While greater men desire power, glory, knowledge, your kind only wants pleasure, decadence, and anything to soothe your fragile little egos."

"And what's wrong with that," Drizzt managed to gasp, the warmth and energy from the devil's hand intensifying. Drizzt's head rolled back as he let out happy gasps that melted into moans.

"You cannot handle true, terrible knowledge," the devil said, his hand taking a firmer grip on Drizzt's covered flesh.

"Try me," Drizzt whispered, the bliss rose as did his wonderment of the entire situation. He knew he would regret the answer he would get, though his fear was melting away and replaced by an insatiable, reckless desire to try anything.

He felt the soft press of hot lips against his, focusing for a moment and checking on his still-in tact shadow shield. Incubi were fold of sucking the souls out of those they seduced; there was little reason he should have thought otherwise about erinyes.

A clawed hand grabbed his shoulder and pulled him into a deeper kiss; the devil's breath and pulsing touch making Drizzt light headed though still in control of his capacities. Drizzt smiled and joined along with the kiss, thinking it interesting the only men with whom he had ever had intimacies were evil outsiders or their conduits. The only women he ever had were usually cheap whores…with one notable exception from what seemed like ancient history.

He lazily opened his eyes to get a better look of the devil pleasuring him; his lavender orbs meeting those of flaming orange...then just flames; a mass of flames licking a brimstone landscape.

A puff of flame revealed a wall made from the twisted and burning flesh of humans while spindly demons climbed upward, their claws making bloody spatters into the flesh. The devils crawled upward to a long cavern glowing with red flames, where a hulking figure towered over him.

The figure floated closer, the plumes of smoke and flames parting to reveal a mass of green muscles, a shaved head with two black horns protruding from his forehead. His strong face wore a cruel smirk as his glowing green eyes bored through Drizzt.

_Are we still intrigued, pathetic drow, _the creature said in a dark, booking voice.

Drizzt wanted to make some kind of smart reply, but found his internal voice frozen silent. He had never felt this much fell power from any creature; no demon, no yochol, not even Vhaeraun's avatar held this much intense energy.

Wenthias had given him a kind of gift indeed; a personal audience with his own master. At this moment he realized it was the drumming in his eardrums that kept him alive; Bane could smell his fear though he would not be inhaling much of it.

The Black Lord gave a happy sneer, his eyes dissecting and analyzing every part of Drizzt's being.

_So this is the mighty warrior the Masked brat keeps going on about, _Bane said. _Small and breakable like the rest of your ilk, yet I suppose you can handle those little knives you are so fond of. _

Drizzt managed a stiff smirk, a significant part of his pride applauding the only coherent move he could made while the rest of him went into hiding. The gesture only made Bane's malicious grin even wider.

_You are fortunate, _Bane continued, _for I will not be crushing you like an insect today…today at least. You willingly accepted the embrace of an erinyes without drawing your blades and you will walk away from here with merely a chill instead of erupting into holy flames. You are indeed corrupted by darkness, though you still have much to work on. This affinity for emotion you have needs to be squeezed out. You could be the greatest living warrior of darkness if you cut out your weakness. Just watch how my own champion cringes when you even mention his beloved little nephew, though he is dead now. I will need a hard warrior in my service when I finally crush your current master… and I will consume him when he his purpose is done. _

The taint of goodness, Drizzt thought. Bane knew he had accepted, even embraced the cold chill of shadow yet that whole emotion matter was a bone of contention for such an old and sadistic being. The reference to crushing Vhaeraun was just typical.

_You will have your chance to finally harden yourself very soon, _Bane said. _The drow with which you have traveled will die soon. That is not an if but a when. Disease has wracked his body for months and the upstart who spawned him, that pathetic wretch who calls himself Moril, will want his son for the ultimate undying weapon. _

Drizzt went cold. He screamed at himself that everything the fiend said was a lie, another attempt to manipulate him. It had to be that; it was just too fantastic to be believed.

_Oh, your trickster god never informed you, did he, _Bane sneered. _You have been traveling with one who is either a traitor or a pawn; that simpering little mercenary is the bastard son of your enemy and if his father does not kill him like he wants his own rotting liver will. He is nothing but a corpse now and will become your nightmare soon. You know what will have to be done, soldier. Don't give me a reason to bring you an eternity of torment._

A green mist blew in his face as his body tightened with ecstasy and fear. He let out a few loud grunts as the tension released in a mass of shivers. He was cold, yet could feel sweat pouring down his back and through his spiked hair.

The erinyes pulled back, his hand releasing its hold on Drizzt's trousers before it swooped up in the air and vanished in a wave of green mist and red flames. Drizzt gazed upward, his mind registering a pleased smile from the devil's lips.

He took a few deep breaths and looked at the rest of the company. Wenthias gave a proud smile as Fielder clapped with a mass of laughter.

Regis was in a crouched position on the ground, his arms covering his head and protecting the rest of his quivering body. The halfling managed to peek up and stare at Drizzt, his lower lip quivering as tears slid down his plump face.

--------------

_Don't you think you've seen enough, _Mazn'reysla's astral voice sounded through Entreri's mind in a stern manner.

_Yes, see more of what you didn't want me to, _Entreri replied,

The assassin did not want to look at Mazn'reysla unless the next vision was the priest's blood…though maybe that was what Moril wanted.

Entreri heard a harsh sigh through the astral; a sad sigh with a hint of painful understanding.

_You knew he was dying, _Entreri said, managing to pry his eyes from the tent and look at the back of Mazn'reysla's head. _And you let this happen. You let Moril get hold of him and use him as his puppet when you knew…_

_Nothing, _Mazn'reysla replied with an air of finality. _His illness only became obvious within the last few days. Moril kept it hidden from all. We only knew after our examination in Shar's temple when we could halt the progression at least for the moment._

Entreri kicked the ground. It was just one excuse after another; one more reason for a group of scheming casters to let his old companion die horribly.

He brought this upon himself, the assassin tried to tell himself, the words floating repeatedly through his brain yet having no real meaning. He exploited every one he ever met and viewed individuals by how he could manipulate them; what difference is it if others have done this to him.

Entreri took a deep breath, trying to calm the many thoughts rushing through his head. One thought always managed to find the sticking point in his brain: Jarlaxle is dying. There is little anyone can do about that now. All that is left is to keep from joining him.

He kicked the ground again and walked toward the tent. He had probably done more astral sensing on Moril's chosen vessel than Moril himself wanted done, though they all were clearly at war.

Entreri regained control of his muscles, letting his hand pause in the air for a moment before gently clasping the corner of the canvas. His stomach was heavy as he looked on his old companion again; his chalky skin clearer at the angle he was in now as more spidery veins were visible on his arms and the sides of his neck.

Jarlaxle's eyes were closed as he gave soft, yet labored breaths. He looked healthier a few hours ago; his condition seemingly deteriorating in only the course of the evening. Something was amiss here and there was only clear reason why.

The drow in the tent gave a cough, his muscles trembling as his breaths came heavier.

More warning cries went off in his mind, though a part of him preferred action over merely watching. He concentrated, letting his vision go into the astral spectrum.

Jarlaxle's bright life essence waned rapidly; the flow of entropy no longer a steady trickle but a surging wave. Entreri focused again, the small amount of bourbon in his system relaxing him enough to focus and see the outline of Jarlaxle's organs once again. The tissue of his deteriorated liver tightened as Moril's black cord bulged.

_Get the hells over here, _Entreri screamed through the planes to Mazn'reysla.

Unsurprisingly, he heard no soft footsteps; only the sound of choking breaths from across the field.

Entreri slowly looked behind him in the direction of where the cleric was taking Reverie. His blond hair dangled back as an invisible force held him on his feet. His hair parted to reveal his ebony face a ghost white as he appeared to struggle with forces unseen.

Entreri looked forward, meeting a pair of glowing amber eyes. No white was visible; only sickly yellow surrounding irises of gold.

The assassin braced himself against the kick to his stomach, punching forward and slamming Jarlaxle upside his head. Jarlaxle braced the blow and slammed his body against Entreri's.

Entreri landed on the ground, Charon's Claw crashing against a longsword as the jeweled dagger parried an aggressive blow from the other sword. Entreri kicked against Jarlaxle's stomach, jumping to his feet and dodging a swinging slice.

His arms and blades responded to each aggressive, yet graceful swing as his eyes focused on Jarlaxle. There was no mirth in his face, only cold rage. No life danced in his eyes and there was no plotting behind these moves; only the movements of a well-built puppet. Jarlaxle's body moved, but Jarlaxle was not there at all.

Jarlaxle kicked at Entreri; the nimble assassin spinning out of the way to swing his leg behind Jarlaxle's knee. Jarlaxle's own elven reflexes brought his leg away from his opponent and kick at his going while rapidly engaging both blades.

Artemis jumped away from the kick, Charon's Claw swinging away from the swords as the dagger clipped the side of his face.

"Are you content playing the slave, Jarlaxle Baenre," Entreri hissed, carefully pronouncing his companion's true name.

Jarlaxle gave a cackle, though a small glint of red flashed in his eyes. His laugh turned into a growl as he charged forward with both blades. The dagger parried as Charon's claw lead a rapid feint. Moril was a bit testier in combat than his host.

"So Jarlaxle allows himself to be this clumsy," Entreri said, dodging a swing to his neck before lunging with his dagger. "So the great schemer is undone by shoddy swordsmanship."

_Jarlaxle stop this, now, _Entreri's astral voice barked. It was probably suicide to try this trick now, though Moril was after blood anyway. _Fight him, godsdammit!_

Jarlaxle lunged forward, one sword crashing against the dagger in an aggressive parry while the other sword feinted Charon's Claw before putting a nick in Entreri's shoulder.

_Might as well play along, _an astral voice replied that made Entreri have to hide his grin; Jarlaxle was capable of some communication. _This will end, though I cannot guarantee it will end cleanly._

Entreri charged forward, feinting with Charon's claw before driving the pommel of his dagger into Jarlaxle's collarbone; focusing on the blow and imagining a wash of shadows bursting into Moril's essence. It was a far-fetched idea, though maybe he could accomplish something Drizzt did by accident.

Jarlaxle gave a loud grunt as the blow only bruised him, though both heard another voice howl followed by a thud from behind. Entreri cautiously looked over to see Mazn'reysla lying on the ground; his breath coming easier though a steady flow of blood running from his nose.

_Foolish human, _a harsh, otherworldly voice called through the assassin's brain.

_Indeed, you want him to live, _Jarlaxle's astral voice asked with a laugh.

_Shut up, _Moril screamed, prompting a yelp from Jarlaxle as his eyes glowed more and he swung wildly.

_And who will our third companion take in his bed for the rest of the journey if he is gone, _Entreri responded, doing a series of spinning dodges away from both blades.

The assassin heard a familiar laugh that was quickly quenched. Jarlaxle swung his blades with a bit more force, though the host was gaining more control of his body if only for a moment. Entreri lightly parried one while giving a feint with his dagger.

_This is hardly over, _Jarlaxle's voice said, its tone notably more tired. _Though it cannot end here. _

_Oh yes, _Entreri responded, _you can let yourself be taken over by this parasite. Did you intend to die a coward?_

Jarlaxle paused, giving a sad smirk before feinting with one sword and pushing himself on the dagger, only the tip protruding from a shallow section of skin from his arm. The results would be the same.

_Know and know how to fight, _Jarlaxle's voice whispered.

In the moment, a wave of pain washed over Entreri's form as his vision became black. The black mist became red, silk sheets as he saw a young drow underneath a female, his skin disappearing from his form as he screamed. Entreri took a closer look and saw the bleeding face of a young drow he saw in a dream; the drow who faded into the form of Jarlaxle and faded into the hideous, misshapen mass.

The assassin then focused on the female drow attacking him; her naked body withered with advanced age; her long hair wild as her lined face was wrapped in malicious laughter. Entreri had only seen her in person a few times, though the withered face of High Matron Yvonnel Baenre would never leave his memory.

The matron threw her head back and let out a long scream. She was now reclining in her throne as Triel Baenre carried a screaming male child to an obsidian altar; a spider dagger soon in her hand.

"Name him," the first daughter barked.

"Jarlaxle," Old Baenre's voice croaked.

Triel raised the dagger high and thrust it down; a searing pain slamming through Entreri's body.

The assassin screamed, his vision now back on the ground and the river of blood spurting from the red stump that was his right wrist. He was on his knees as he looked at the dirt then the severed hand still clutching a dagger.

Entreri slowly looked up, his scream now a grunting gasp; meeting a pair of red eyes gazing on him in guilty concern.

The eyes faded to gold, Jarlaxle's face taking on a malicious smirk.

"You will be seeing me soon," Moril said as his host's form was immersed in black mist and then vanished.


	24. Honor Among Monsters

**The Lesser Evil: Hooligan's Holiday**

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of R.A. Salvatore/Wizards of the Coast ©. I don't own them; I'm just examining all their possibilities.

**Chapter 24: Honor Among Monsters**

The blood would not stop.

Entreri yanked on the tourniquet he tied around his wrist with a piece of his cloak and a twig, though it only redirected the fountain of blood shooting from the severed stump where his hand had been.

Panic was passing as every emotion was now muted with the sickening lethargy that came with losing this much blood in such a short period of time. It had not even been a minute since Jarlaxle, on the end of Moril's string of death, sliced off his hand in battle before fading away.

Barely a minute later, the human's knees were buried in the dirt as he tried to stay upright though the dizziness threatened to send him on a final trip to the ground.

Entreri gave a series of heaving breaths, greedily taking in air to focus himself against the growing chill, act like he was alive for at least a moment. Judging by the thick stream of blood spraying from the severed veins and artery in his arm, Artemis knew that moment would come to an end fast.

Another wave of dizziness fell over him and threatened to topple him over. He dropped Charon's Claw, fearing if the sword felt him dying it would finish the job, and braced himself on the bloody ground with his good arm; the warm slick of his own blood drenching his trousers and turning the dirt into a red mud.

He took a few more determined breaths that turned into determined growls as he raised his heavy head to see Mazn'reysla's still-prone form on the ground. The drow's red eyes were partially open as he gave labored breaths. Entreri managed a smile before reaching for his dagger and trying to find the last bit of strength in his legs.

"You had better help your second blade before he helps himself to your preacher, you masked rat bastard," Entreri gasped, plucking the dagger from his severed hand on the ground as he focused the last ounce of adrenaline into his legs.

"Forgetting something," an oily voice said beside him. "I think you may need piece of yourself."

Entreri gave a sharp breath, feeling another chill in his vicinity that was not the cold hand of death, or his own personal death at least. Without thought, he picked up his still-warm hand and sprinted toward Mazn'reysla; his peripheral vision catching a wave of shadows that blew into the form of a grinning male drow with blue hair and eyes peering through a black mask.

He shrugged off the vision, feeling the last bit of energy in his legs dwindle as he threw himself on the ground and slid toward the unconscious priest. His trajectory came short, bringing him to a clumsy scramble beside him.

Entreri fell to his knees and fell forward, catching himself on his good arm and the bleeding stump which twisted in the dirt and shot an excruciating pain through his arm. He gave a scream akin to a wounded animal as the last bit of his energy gushed out with his blood. His body threatened to collapse again, though he strained his muscles past pain to remain upright.

"Put the dagger in the limp hand," a stern voice said beside him, hot breath blowing against his ear as he slowly did as instructed. "Good, now if you look on his body, you will see a black cloth in his hand. Take that out and wrap it around your dagger wrist."

Entreri gave a gasping breath, reaching toward the ebony hand lying limp at Mazn'reysla's side clutching his holy symbol. The human clutched it and lazily wrapped it around his stump and severed hand, his foggy brain communicating what he needed to do next.

His clasped his cooling wrist and held it on the stump while clasping the dagger. His arms rose an inch with the only strength he had left before he gave another groan and forced his arms up, maneuvering the dagger blade over Mazn'reysla's chest.

"No vital areas please," the voice scolded.

Entreri moved his direction before gravity and his weak arms sent the blade into Mazn'reysla's shoulder, hitting against his top rib and going no further.

A surge of energy flowed up the blade, sending Entreri's knees back an inch with the sheer force of the jolt as the wave pulsed through his body. His weak pulse quickened and his teeth chattered with the energy surging through him.

His vision was a haze of black shadows, focusing on the smiling drow god as his lungs gasped with renewed energy. This was the strongest surge of life force he had ever felt from his dagger; even the shade's essence was not this strong.

The shadows became thicker, though images of black blood pulsed through his vision as his senses were washed in a thick miasma of death that he had only sensed in small amounts, though enough to know what this was.

"Oh, forgot to mention," Vhaeraun said casually through his haze, "you are extracting the essence Moril forced on my friend here just a moment ago."

The miasma became stronger, though Entreri directed his inner energy at it; his inner shadows that poured against the bloody death and dissipated it. He felt the chill again, though the familiar cold he felt after extracting the essence of that shade in Heliogabalus in a moment in ancient history. That was his power now, he thought with an inner smile; a weapon he could wield instead of a phantom that haunted him.

"Oh good, you figured it out," Vhaeraun said. "I feared I would have to remind you."

Moril's essence dissipated, though Entreri focused his newly realized Sight on the small tendrils that remained. He knew he was playing with fire when his form was already a charred husk, though he had so many questions that needed answering; questions that could possibly root out Moril's weakness.

He watched the black aura through his shadows, peering through the streaming void for any sign. His vision became sharper as his focus on the essence was closer.

It was as if the black taint was in front of his face close enough to see a river of black flesh…intermingled with a river of tiny spiders.

"I hope you know what you're doing," Vhaeraun said calmly, though Entreri had his answer.

He peered through the spiders with an inner grin before a series of clearer visions flashed past him.

A mountain range under a forest of dead trees.

One craggy hill.

A long tunnel under one particular ridge.

A series of black holes oozing with Moril's decay, guarded by wraiths.

A mass of gyrating clowns bearing Moril's face, clowns that had once been drow.

An all too-familiar face grown sallow with advanced disease and framed by a new growth of long white hair; jaundiced, amber eyes staring at the throngs of clowns with a vacant, no irritated expression as a clawed hand lovingly ran through his hair.

That thrice godsdamned clown petting his new trophy as he watched his army of zombies stretching their dead muscles in preparation for their next attack.

That pair of horrible amber eyes periodically shifting back to their normal red hue as Entreri saw the gears in Jarlaxle's constantly scheming brain turning against his father's necromantic control. The eyes then turned red, looking at the bastard who spawned him with a patient glare that said "your time is over soon."

"All right, I believe you've had your fill," Vhaeraun's voice sounded through Entreri's concentration.

His eyes flew open and regarded the sky as he gave gasping breaths. It was as if he had been thrown into a frozen lake after spending an eternity in a hell pit; the surge of energy was cut off just as it reached its peak.

Entreri wheezed for a moment, finally catching his breath through a few coughs as his hammering heart gradually pounded softer through his ears. He flexed his right hand and felt a strong ache…in his right hand that now stiffly moved.

He threw his head to the side and looked at his once-severed hand. The hand was still its light bluish color, though the normal tan was returning; a nasty scar around his wrist was the only remnant of his earlier mortal wound. He flexed the muscles in his wrist, his tendons protesting for a moment before stiffly, and painfully stretching to move his fingers open and closed.

There were no bleeding wounds, though he was still significantly weak; though he was alive.

The assassin chuckled, a laugh that rose in volume and became a happily maddened cackle. He flexed his right hand again, the muscles moving freer with increased use.

His black eyes gradually trailed upward to meet the gold eyes of his rescuer.

Vhaeraun sat on the ground next to Mazn'reysla's prone form, though the priest's chest rose and fell with strong breaths; his still-pale face now wearing a smile as his eyes were closed. The god stroked his priest's cheek like a loving parent, prompting a wider smile from the cleric as he leaned his cheek closer to his lord's touch. Vhaeraun gave a beaming grin as he looked down at the human.

Entreri groaned, lifting his aching head. A few days ago he trembled in the presence of this being; now he merely regarded him, no fear touching him at all. The last time he cried out for Vhaeraun in desperation was an embarrassing surprise to him. This latest time was no less of a surprise, though now it almost seemed natural. And here the Masked Lord's avatar was now; staring down at him after saving his life. It was time for some reckoning, with this otherworldly being and himself.

"I just love putting a handsome, virile warrior on his back," Vhaeraun said with a sneering grin.

Entreri gave a groan that turned into a laugh, hardly missing the god's lewd reference.

"Now don't we feel better now," Vhaeraun said, his hair and eyes a bright shade of blue.

"I supposed you expect to be compensated for your services," Entreri said, his voice still weak.

The assassin knew where this was going and it was best to just have it over with; he had rehearsed this conversation in his head, though now was the best time to finally let it all out.

His tired, pensive expression and serious tone communicated everything to Vhaeraun, who studied him further as his hair and eyes turned green.

"I have the feeling you have something to offer me," the Masked Lord said.

Entreri laid his head back and paused, his fatigue censoring any remaining doubts he had; he was ready to say this despite all internal cries against it.

"Parley," the human said evenly.

Vhaeraun dramatically cocked an eyebrow, his gaze boring through the human.

"I'm listening," the god said.

Entreri gazed at the avatar, a part of him still thinking he was selling his soul though the remaining part knowing he was making the right decision.

"Hear me well," he said. "I will never bow down before you, I will never serve you as a slave, I will never hide behind your mask, and I sure as the Abyss will never live or die on your whims."

Entreri braced himself for more pain, though only saw corners of Vhaeraun's mouth turned up in an amused smile.

"So what's left," the god said.

Entreri's lower lip moved as he chose his words carefully.

"Cooperation," he said with finality.

Vhaeraun regarded him for a moment of tense silence. His blue hair faded to bright gold and his grin widened.

"That is all I ask," the god said, a cold hand patting Entreri's shoulder. "Welcome home, brother. Though now you need to rest."

Vhaeraun put a finger to his lips. Entreri's heavy eyes gradually closed as sleep took him at last.

------------

Drizzt's legs froze in mid run, sending him sliding on the grass for a few paces and nearly tripping over his feet. His natural agility stopped his momentum though it was hardly a conscious effort; all he could see, all he could understand was a wide pool of blood and two prone bodies on the ground.

He heard the rest of his "companions" stop behind him; the Brute Squad plus Regis who decided to follow him to his encampment for a more direct conversation with his companions.

At this moment his heart was the clearest thing he could hear. Drizzt gasped, his reasoning telling him what happened though the rest of him refusing to believe it.

"No," he growled, his voice rising to a wail. "No!"

He found the feeling in his legs once more and bounded down the hill toward his lover and his human brother lying side by side in a mass of blood. His face prickled with heat and all he could taste was blood.

Drizzt heard a mass of feet a few steps behind them, but he could care less.

"Whatever happens Drizzt, know you have friends with you now," Regis said softly in between gasps as his pudgy form and little legs tried to keep up with his old friend.

He managed to dodge an ebony hand that punched backwards in his direction, though was glad Drizzt's hand did not carry a sword.

The halfling looked up at Drizzt's face, his lavender eyes ablaze with vicious fire though his face wore an expression of hopeless anger; much like the expression he probably wore after Catti-brie died.

Much like the only expression Regis ever saw on Drizzt's face before Catti-brie's funeral since he only went into his room once in that horrible time. This is what destroyed his old companion; not only the loss of a love but the loss of the only true friend he ever had and the Companions did nothing to ease that pain.

A few tears sneaked down Regis' face as he watched Drizzt stop in front of the prone figures of Artemis Entreri and the wicked drow priest. The halfling stayed a few steps away from both, staring into the hollow face of the man he saw in his nightmares and the dark elf who would join the assassin in Regis' dreams.

The priest lay on the ground, eyes closed as he gave strong, yet relaxed breaths. The human was slumped on his side, skin a shade of deathly white though his face also looked at peace.

Drizzt gave a relieved gasp after seeing both of them breathing. He fell to his knees in the bloody mud and stared at both. A small line of dried blood ran from one of Mazn'reysla's fine nostrils to his lips. Entreri's clothing was soaked in blood though he bore no marks…save for an angry scar around his right wrist.

His right hand clutched his dagger, whose blade oozed with blood. The small ooze of blood from Mazn'reysla's bare shoulder told the rest of the story; wether the two had come to blows or Entreri needed to save himself.

Drizzt did not want to think of the implications of this scene knowing both were still alive, though unconscious for however long.

"Where is your third companion?" Wenthias said from behind him.

Drizzt slowly turned around and looked at the tent. When he last left, Jarlaxle was sitting and making his latest torturous attempt at Reverie; now the tent's front flap gaped open as the side of the structure was caved in. Only a few bags were visible inside and not a dark elf. Drizzt groaned and threw his head back; yet another element was added to the horrible equation.

"Godsdamnit," he screamed, kicking a rock and bruising his toe in the process, though the sound of Regis' gasp made him feel slightly happier.

"This injury will be returned tenfold," Wenthias said, prompting another angry grunt and kicked rock from Drizzt.

The drow's eyes lazily followed the last stone as it rolled down the hill and was snatched up in a rapid flick of the human's hand. Drizzt's eyes widened and stared at his companion, who lay prone for one more second before moving his head to the side and opening his eyes.

"That could have hit me," Entreri said, his weak voice dripping with its usual cold sneer.

"Fuck you," Drizzt gasped as a grin crept over his face.

Drizzt walked over and watched his friend find enough strength to lean on his right elbow, though he did so with a wince. The ranger fell to his knees and patted Entreri on the head, receiving a light backhand across the jaw for his efforts. Drizzt grabbed the human's swinging hand and held it before him, getting a better look of the angry red scar the hand's slightly bluish tinge.

Drizzt looked down to Entreri and let his gaze fall to Maz's hollow face.

"Jarlaxle," Entreri said. "By way of Moril. He's taken him."

Drizzt closed his eyes and let out a hard sigh. A small waking moan behind Entreri sent his heart into his throat. Mazn'reysla shifted slightly and his red eyes fluttered open. Drizzt leapt over Entreri, who jerked his body back and out of the way.

Maz looked up at his lover, who caressed his cheek with a look of panicked concern. The cleric smiled and reached up, letting his hand fall behind Drizzt's neck as he pulled him down for a passionate kiss.

Drizzt pressed his lips against Mazn'reysla's, his tongue creeping out and joining with his lover's. Maz's body was slightly chilled though he was clearly alive, a thought that made Drizzt embrace him tighter. He could have lost another lover, though Maz was here now and embracing him. It was another thought that made Drizzt kiss him with more passion..

The priest gently broke the kiss and looked up at the new visitors with Drizzt's attention following. Wenthias cocked an eyebrow and shifted uncomfortably as Asorath, who had followed some distance behind the party cackled. Fielder and Linuin simply looked bored as did Entreri, whose tired gaze bore a hole through Wenthias.

Regis stared at both of them in shocked awe. A passionate moment between two men was neither a new concept to Regis nor one that elicited any reaction but bored indifference. To see Drizzt in a passionate kiss with another male was more surprising, but to see him with a clearly wicked male drow was even more unsettling.

It was not a kiss of control, however, and not a kiss of lust or indifference; it was a kiss of passionate affection, maybe even a kiss of love. It was a kiss Regis had seen passed between Drizzt and Catti-brie, though there was no way the same emotion was here…possibly.

Entreri slowly rolled to his side and found some renewed strength in his legs to bring himself to a crouch then a stand. His head swam and his stomach lurched, though the feeling of being actually alive and not close to death was gradually returning. He took a few deep breaths and reoriented himself to his surroundings.

His right wrist still ached and flexing his fingers was far from comfortable, though he found he could move his fingers with more ease. As long as he kept the hand moving, he would recover…miraculously.

Entreri could see Drizzt and Mazn'reysla in his peripheral vision, suddenly noticing Drizzt's now-short hair though that was likely a result of whatever brought the Brute Squad there. His black eyes were fixed on Gherbod Wenthias and traveled to the other members of his party, sizing all of them up as if he expected immediate answers from their shadows.

He only glanced at Regis, knowing he would deal with that one later. The Brute Squad must have followed his advice and judging by the fact the halfling was not a corpse or a trembling puddle of cowardice his words must have been wiser than he thought.

"Well, well, well, so we've finally decided to stop hiding," Entreri said with a sneer.

"There is a proper time to observe, Master Entreri, and there is a proper time to act," Wenthias said with smug determination, though his scarred face was marked with resolve. "We have just had a fruitful conversation with Vhaeraun's champion and felt now was the time for us to join forces. Our course seems to be at an ideal time seeing as all subtlety on Moril's part has ended."

Entreri cackled at the blackguard's words. It was such a gross understatement of the mess he had just gone through that he had to laugh.

"Forgive me if I may sound so bold, but no shit," the assassin said, looking down at the nasty scar around his wrist and the slightly bluish tinge his hand still took.

"I believe my second blade was just about to tell us what the flying fuck happened here," Drizzt said in a muted yell.

Entreri flexed his once-severed hand and took a few more deep breaths, wondering if he could find any coherent words for all that he had gone through in the past hour.

Jarlaxle was dying. Jarlaxle nearly killed him, but not of his own free will. He nearly died again. He saved himself by once again crying out to a god, though did so consciously and not in panic. He swore himself to a god after spending the past forty years cursing them all. He realized he could do magic without spells when he had lived by the blade his entire life.

Entreri gave a stiff smile, glad he lacked the urge to fall to his knees and weep like a pathetic child as he did after the devils' attack, though cool conversation was still a hard endeavor.

"The gauntlet has been officially thrown," Entreri said, finding some will to pick himself up. "Moril took over Jarlaxle completely and sicked him after both of us. I believe Mazn'reysla was brought down with his energy as for me…" His voice trailed off, never wanting to admit he had been defeated even if it was under such unusual circumstances.

Drizzt nodded, reading his emotions and knowing that look far too well. It was Entreri's look of defeat, though more anger at himself and the circumstances than actual defeat.

"Moril was able to break Jarlaxle's mind within a few days," Drizzt said in a calmly pointed tone, "and he took down you and Mazn'reysla in shorter time, proving he is too powerful for any of us to take alone."

Entreri gave him a tired look, nodding at the truth of his words.

"I take it that hand you clutch was once on the ground after an unfortunate slice," Wenthias said.

"That would be a very accurate statement," Entreri replied with another stiff smile.

"His taint crept into my soul and it tried to strangle me," Mazn'reysla said softly, his red eyes fixed on the sky. "I stood trying to breathe, but it was too much. Then the cord snapped, I fell, but the clown's essence still flowed through me, still choking me, grabbing my life essence. I heard the human give a prayer to our lord, the last breaths of a dying man. Our lord asked me if he, the human, could use my energy to heal. I said yes. Our lord said the human would draw the taint from me. I did not fear the blade. I just let myself sleep. The poison was drawn from me, dissipated with his shadows. Moril hates shadows. They are abhorrent to him like holy light. The human used the shadows to heal himself, keep him from death, reattached his hand. My lord stroked my cheek. 'Don't worry, my son,' he said, and I felt his shadows come into me, returning my strength. Then I slept a little more."

Entreri sighed hard at the words, bending down and retrieving the dagger in question from the ground and spinning it around a few times in his reconnected hand. His movements were not as fluid as he liked, though with a bit more practice that would no longer be an issue. He then looked at Drizzt, who regarded him with a confused expression. There would be a lot of uncomfortable explaining later.

"It indeed appears, for whatever reason, Moril is choosing now to attack when, from my understanding, he was more content waiting in the shadows," Wenthias said. "This has gone beyond tumbling clowns and subtle manipulations to all out attacks. One has to wonder what could be setting him off now."

"I don't know, maybe the asshole sees all of us all chummy with each other now and decides to crash the party," Fielder said, casually leaning against a nearby tree and glancing up the hill to their fire. The Banite's encampment was heavily protected by wards, though he still pined for his roast.

"Or he has a higher purpose in mind," Entreri said, more thinking out loud than making any contributions to the conversation. All he could think of was the stream of spiders in Moril's black miasma. The connection was only obvious.

The assassin gave Drizzt a subtle glance, his face taking a determined look with a slight nod hidden from every other member of the party. Drizzt nodded, getting the hint that such was a matter for private discussion.

"Which we will need to ferret out though the circumstances are only obvious," Drizzt said, covering for the silent exchange between him and his human companion.

"Though I am a bit more curious about this black taint you speak of," Linuin said, tentatively walking forward. "I thought Moril was a mere enchanter."

"Pish posh, this is the motive of a psion, father," Asorath added with a proud smile and hands on his hips. "Everyone assumes he is an enchanter, though such smoke and mirrors hides a rather powerful mind mage. Enchanters cannot control a victim as thoroughly as has been described, nor can they use their magics to wage such devastating attacks. Psions can make a victim feel as if his life essence is being strangled form him as his mind is being broken."

Drizzt and Entreri exchanged glances, their looks silently inquiring as to how much they should tell this highly untrustworthy group of the many details they had learned. Drizzt gave a pained smile and shrugged; it was better to let them in on their knowledge if they were going to accompany them. Entreri's glare of warning told him he shouldn't tell too much.

"Moril is no psion, that much I am sure," Entreri said. "I've dealt with the bastards enough to know what their tricks look like." He gave Asorath a mocking smile, which was returned with a laugh.

"Nor is he an enchanter," Drizzt said, coming to a stand though keeping his hand on Mazn'reysla's shoulder. "Moril is a necromancer, controlling Jarlaxle's life force as his 'servants' are the corpses of the Masked Lord's worshippers from the first temple he ever attacked."

"So the fucker got you first," Fielder said. "Well shit."

"The fucker got around a hundred of my brothers and sisters, turned them into zombies, painted them up, and sent them after your temples as tumbling clowns of death," Drizzt said. "We have good reason to believe he moved into our temple and is making it his center of filth."

The members of the Brute Squad exchanged glances all with a mix of enthusiasm and trepidation.

"It was the last haven for drow escaping their cities, escaping the tyranny and horrors of the Spider Bitch," Mazn'reysla said. "A place to stop for comfort so they can avoid the horrors of the tunnels in which they have been sealed. From there they can find freedom."

"I assume your temple is located in the Underdark and a great distance from Cormanthor," Wenthias said.

"In a nice central location to all the other temples he attacked," Drizzt said. "All he needs is to send his minions down some tunnels or some portals, clowns explode, people die, Moril gets his rocks off."

"Though what of your companion," Linuin said, the already deep lines around his fish-like lips creasing further. "If Moril is indeed a necromancer, how is he able to control a live drow, or is your companion something else; intelligent revenant, maybe a vampire."

"He has a pulse last I checked, which was the last time I saw him act under Moril's command," Drizzt said, though felt a tiny twitch at the bottom of his stomach remembering what Bane had told him about Jarlaxle's physical state.

Entreri's brief cringe made the twitch a bit stronger. That was something else they would have to discuss later.

"It is exceedingly rare, almost impossible, for a necromancer to control a living being as you have described," Linuin said, his voice growing haughtier. "I believe our new companions are not being entirely truthful, perhaps about Moril's location as well."

Entreri glared at Linuin, whose eyes widened for a moment before retaining his smug expression. Despite his cowardice on everything else, the elf needed to demonstrate his superior intellect on the Art for the purpose of hearing himself speak.

"In Menzoberranzan the poison flows like wine," Mazn'reysla said, managing to pry his eyes from the sky and regard the moon elf with an unnerving gaze. "Blessed is he who absorbs poison in his veins to fight any poison he is fed. Unfortunate is he who is poisoned, and cursed is he when the poison in his blood kills him hundreds of years after the fact."

Entreri looked at Drizzt, who sighed and turned his head away. It was as if he expected to hear those words, though judging by his pained expression is the news was hardly welcome.

"What our priest is trying to say is Jarlaxle is not dead, though he is dying," Entreri said, thinking a little more information on the mess they were all in would help. "He has been dying for the past few months I would presume. His liver is failing, he has all the signs."

"You a healer," Linuin huffed.

"I'm an assassin," Entreri replied, his glare making the elf take a step back. "A bit of the same knowledge is needed."

"It makes little difference," Linuin said, avoiding direct eye contact with the unnerving human. "If Moril were to control his dying essence, he would need a fragment of his liver or a sizable amount of blood to control him, two components harvested over the course of several uninterrupted hours. Unless the two are father and son, it is impossible."

The sudden brow raise and look of clarity on Wenthias' face made Drizzt and Entreri want to pounce on him before both looked at each other and saw the same subtle glare visible to no one but them. Both turned away from each other, adding yet another topic of private conversation on the list.

"Given the circumstances, the champions of the Masked Lord are understandably the ones who know more about the Clown Cultist's nature than we do," Wenthias said, his expression and tone of voice even. "We are indeed fortunate they have been as cooperative as they have. They have little to gain by leading us astray I can assure you."

The last statement was typical for the blackguard, though it was obvious Wenthias was keeping his suspicions to himself; which could have been a blessing or a curse to Vhaeraun's champions. It was a scenario that would have to play out later and could wait for now.

"Well let's see what fine mess we have now," Fielder said, cleaning under his grimy nails with the same kitchen knife he used to test the pork he was cooking. "We got a clown who might be a necromancer, enchanter, ass jockey, whatever, loaded with power and even more pissed off than he was before. We got a half-dead darkling who Master Clown is using as a soul-fuck toy, and we got a shit ton of very-dead darklings below our feet ready to go exploding wherever Moril points his dick, plus who the fuck knows what else. So what happens next? What is our present fucking course, my fellow champions 'cause it sounds like our quarry is getting a bit more antsy."

"Our present fucking course is to find this insult to all things breathing and rip his fucking heart out," Drizzt said, giving Maz one last pat on the back before walking up to his fellow ranger. "We have all traveled way too far while our people have suffered way to godsdamned much not to get this parasite where he lives and make him know the true meaning of pain."

He turned his fiery gaze to every member of the Brute Squad, hardly caring about any grins or snarls he received.

"You lost temples, you lost brothers and sisters, we lost a temple, we lost hundreds of brothers and sisters to this psycho," Drizzt continued, his voice steadily rising. "And this pig fucker squeezed into my world, warped and bloody as it may be, but he came into my territory. That half-dead darkling, as you so eloquently put it, is a godsdamned brother to me and Moril is using him as his toy. I don't give a sweet shit why the rest of you are here, who brought you here, and what the Hells you intent to accomplish. But that is my brother out there and I'll be damned if I'm going to let him get ripped apart and I'm going to be godsdamned if I'm going to let this fucking clown live another day. His head goes to Vhaeraun, his head goes to Bane, his head goes to Malar; it makes no fucking difference as long as his head goes and if you all want to see your travels come to fruition, then let that be our final course."

"Aye," Entreri said in a low tone, nodding.

Regis stood dumbfounded for a moment, but smiled. After all he had been through, after all the horrible changes that had occurred, Drizzt Do'Urden's noble soul still lingered in those harsh words.

"Aye," the halfling replied enthusiastically.

"Aye," Wenthias added, puffing his chest out.

"Aye," Asorath said with a raised fist.

"Fuck yeah," Fielder said with a laugh.

Linuin sniffed and Maz smiled.

Drizzt rolled his eyes at the response, glancing down at Entreri who gave an amused smile at his expense.

"The rules of engagement are set, though the rules are far from simple" Wenthias said. "I believe it is time to truly share our knowledge and determine how this menace will be destroyed once and for all. I suggest we give ourselves a moment to regroup and gather back at our campsite. Moril is too familiar with this particular area and the roast should be done by now."

Drizzt and Entreri gave each other another sidelong look.

"We need to collect our belongings and Master Entreri and I require more healing spells before we continue with anything," Maz said in a surprisingly coherent manner, slowly bringing himself to his feet.

Drizzt clutched his hand and guided him to a wobbly stand while giving him an understanding nod. He was trying to buy time for the remaining members of the party to compare notes in private.

"They need time to plot against us, no doubt," Linuin muttered.

"That is a fair request," Wenthias said, holding a hand to Linuin and flashing him a disapproving glare while speaking to Vhaeraun's champions.

"We will not be long, I assure you," Maz said.

"I will count on your word," Wenthias said, giving all three of them a pointed look before motioning to his party and walking back toward their camp.

Fielder shrugged and followed with Asaroth waving at the remaining three and following behind. Linuin glared at them before following in step.

Regis stood in place for a moment, giving one last lingering look at Drizzt. Drizzt snapped forward a few steps, hands on his weapons as he gave a sudden growl. Regis leapt in the air and ran as fast as his plump legs could carry him back to his "party."

Entreri snickered, the most clearing laugh he had had in what felt like a millennium, watching Drizzt give an obscene gesture in the fleeing halfling's direction.

"Piece of shit," Drizzt spat under his breath.

"Yet he no limping, no visible wounds, not even an inch of torn clothing," the assassin said, crossing his arms. "I noticed the same on every other member of that rabble, and in fact" he lifted one finger and poked at the small tear in Drizzt's tunic, "this is the only mark I see on you other than the new haircut, and I really don't want to know what did that right now. Do I get the sense you are actually capable of peaceful negotiations?"

"Frightening isn't it," Drizzt said.

"And of course you will share every detail of your little escapade," Entreri said, his voice growing a bit strained.

"As will you," Drizzt replied in the same pointed tone, taking a look behind his shoulder to make sure the Brute Squad was indeed far up on the hill and not taking any interest in their conversation.

Drizzt nodded to Maz, who motioned around the perimeter to indicate the anti-scrying spell he had already set up.

"You first," the human said, watching as Maz walked from the group and around the perimeter, likely checking his wards.

"Wenthias and I had a little chat," Drizzt said in a quieter tone. "He repeated his 'we all must hang together' speech."

"Meaning he's being consistent," Entreri replied, knowing full well that Drizzt shadowed him during that conversation in Saerloon; a fact Drizzt didn't feel the need to hide.

"Though as was also expected his words were a bit freer with me than with you, or at least more rehearsed."

"Were those words friendly or hostile?"

"Completely honeyed; he spoke to me like we were old friends. The whole conversation was a very smirking nod at converting me, every word and every part of it. Your theory was right, though."

"He and Torm's champion?"

"His nephew. He himself was a paladin once upon a time."

"Though the darkness was a little more fun. Remind you of anyone?"

Drizzt smiled through a dirty look.

"Let's just get the proverbial elephant out of the room now, I've fucking had it with talking around anything," Drizzt said, stepping closer to Entreri and speaking in a lower tone.

"Jarlaxle," Entreri said with a nod.

Both stared at each other, both trying to find the right words.

"To put it crudely, his blood is raping him in two places," Drizzt said.

"And how the Hells did you know that?" Entreri asked.

"A rather interesting turn in the conversation," Drizzt said. "Wenthias summoned a little friend of his; a rather powerful devil who called himself Bane's lieutenant."

"Did the devil say his name," Mazn'reysla said, suddenly appearing between them.

"He called himself Falzul," Drizzt said. "Anyone you know."

Mazn'reysla's eyes slightly widened. "A rather handsome and particularly nasty erinyes, and one of Bane's favorite page boys."

Maz's slender finger also found its way to the tear in Drizzt's shirt, carefully examining the shape before breaking into peals of laughter. "You didn't bed him, though I can see he gave you a good time," the priest said between chuckles.

"Peaceful negotiations indeed," Entreri said rolling his eyes.

"I believe you dropped this back there," Maz said to Entreri.

Entreri looked at him and his eyes widened in disbelief. Mazn'reysla held Charon's Claw by the hilt and was handing it to him; a smile still on his face and no sign of pain or combustion. The assassin carefully took his sword, shaking a few grains of soil from it before sheathing it.

He held onto the hilt and felt the blade almost relieved to be out of the drow's hand; in fact it was even more docile when it recognized his presence. Entreri could only suspect the many reasons for that change, though none of them bothered him at all.

Drizzt gave him a curious look, though Entreri nodded for him to continue.

"Well this page boy sent me a rather personal message from his handler," Drizzt continued. "In fact I believe I may have had an audience with Master Big and Ugly himself."

"I take it you were hardly inspired to convert."

"The asshole scares me. He said the usual nonsense, 'I will kill your god and make you my servant,' and so on and so on. Though he had a few words about Jarlaxle, and I have a bizarre suspicion you know what they are."

"You first."

Drizzt fund himself speechless, a heaviness forming in the back of his throat. The look his human companion gave him indicated he understood the weight of the words.

"Jarlaxle is dying," Drizzt said. "Bane mentioned his 'rotting liver.' Well, I suppose we know why he hasn't as cheerful and witty even in those days before we started this nonsense."

"And Moril is exploiting his illness," Entreri said. "Using powers, according to that schooled elven mage, which are impossible unless they are father and son."

"Or at least the drow wizard raped and torn to pieces by High Matron Baenre and the end result of his stolen seed and spilt blood. And he knows this knows this 'parasite,' as he so eloquently put it, was sacrificed to Lolth and returned."

Entreri nodded, remembering Moril's words through Jarlaxle at the house of the Gondish priests on the Dragonmere: "the infant's corpse squeezed through Lolth's back end to return to this plane again as a parasite."

"I think we know the reason for his initial hatred of all things godly," the human said. "Maybe he spent enough time in Vhaeraun's temple; by Vhaeraun's side no less, to realize they are all the same. It was likely the beginning of the end."

Though Lolth would have the last laugh, Entreri thought; a shiver ran up his spine recalling the mass of spiders rushing through Moril's essence.

"Though what of you," Drizzt said carefully. "From what Mazn'reysla has told us, it sounds as if that opinion in you may have changed; though we both could be very wrong."

Entreri sighed hard, truly pondering what had occurred during his dying moments; it was something that chilled him to his core yet made him feel at home in a way. He had indeed sworn himself to a god, though a god he could work with; an ally in the planes with a spirit akin to his who required only cooperation and not servitude.

"Let's just say it is the lone wolf who is the first to be eaten," Entreri said. "There is a time to fight, a time to run, and a time to talk; it was best overall for me to choose the latter."

Drizzt gave a warm smile in understanding.

"You did not find a god, you found a name for what was in the core of your being already there and waiting for some validation," Drizzt said, the words cleansing him and reaffirming so much of his own soul.

Entreri managed a pained smile. Perhaps the drow was right and the reality wasn't so frightening.

"Maybe old dead Velz finally had his way," the assassin said with a self-defeating laugh. "Who gives a damn if grandson's human, he's following the family way whether he likes it or not."

Drizzt chuckled at the statement, though a small light of realization shown in his brain.

"Maybe grandma Hallia wanted the same," he said.

Entreri gave him a curious glance.

"We both had a bit of a similar moment," Drizzt said, knowing he was probably revealing too much yet again, though the time for secrets was long gone.

"Not such a devout son are we," Entreri said.

"The road has been a pockmarked bitch and I will kick your ass if you deny that," Drizzt said, receiving a nod from his companion. "I did have a moment of clarity and Hallia came through that moment and spoke to me. Though think about it; my ancestor was the high traitoress of House Mourbasin, your ancestor was the high priest."

"And Jarlaxle is the bastard son of the House archmage," Entreri said, the realization of Ilzir's conversation washing over him. "The same archmage who turned against the House and destroyed it."

"What did the Auzcovyn call the three of us the first moment we entered their village; the Rogue Kings?" Drizzt said, smiling at his realization while Entreri's face grew graver at his. "Maybe our bloodline is from the original Rogue Kings; the masters of the largest House of traitors next to House Jaelre. Remember, Vhaeraun also took shelter in House Mourbasin during the Time of Troubles. Nazir broke the circle and has since taken his son with him and away from us. Maybe we were meant to restore the balance, close the circle."

Drizzt glanced over at Mazn'reysla, who sat on the ground chanting; likely healing himself and not really paying any attention to the conversation.

"Maybe we were meant to be destroyed by the descendent of the original destroyer and dissolve the circle completely," Entreri said. "Unless we were not careful with our last dalliances with the maidens, the line ends with us."

"A real possibility, though I would rather see the glass half full," Drizzt said with a wicked smirk, though his mirth waned with the grim look on his companion's face. "Either you are being extremely pessimistic or there is more."

"There is more, though I'm still figuring out the difference between something I dreamed and something I actually saw," Entreri said.

"The Sight will do that to you," Maz said, his eyes still closed in meditation. "But you gained it as a grown up, you rationalize it too much. That will change the more you use it."

Drizzt furrowed his eyebrows in confusion though suddenly recalled how his companion would cringe in the presence of evil outsiders. Maybe Maz sensed the same thing though had the gift for so long it was nothing to him.

"I assume we're talking about an ability that is more than just getting a sense about something like I think you have lately," Drizzt said.

"We are talking about a convenient, if not rather uncomfortable tool that must be further practiced," Entreri said, finally rationalizing his bizarre experiences.

"Fair enough," Drizzt said, recalling his own increased ability to manipulate shadows; with the right will and focus one could develop and strengthen new abilities, especially after being given the right tools. "Now what did you see that made you question reality?"

Entreri paused for a moment, still trying to make himself not sound as crazy as he probably would. Drizzt, however, still listened to Mazn'reysla's rambling speeches and the priest was completely mad in his opinion; or maybe completely enlightened.

"I saw something in Moril's essence, something other than death, blood and clowns," the assassin said. "Something that may indicate he is receiving outside help."

"What did you see?"

"Spiders; millions of tiny spiders flowing through his essence like blood flows through veins," Entreri said, taking a subtle step back to see how Drizzt would react.

Drizzt's eyes slowly widened, more lights of realization shining through next to more shouts of warning.

"A house of traitors," Drizzt said, everything making sense now. "A whelp ripped apart by the most powerful Matron in Menzoberranzan, maybe the planet. A third-born son from that seed, sacrificed and then brought back to continue Lolth's chaos, the same son who would grow up a non-believer who would gain Lolth's curse over 400 years later as the poison in his veins destroyed him. A drow who so hated Lolth and all the other deities he wanted his revenge against all of them, but with zombies not worshippers. A goddess who returned from slumber with an increased blood thirst, an increased desire to come after her greatest enemies…maybe with some new minions. A spidery cunt…"

The last remembrance of Fielder's words put Drizzt on his knees in front of Mazn'reysla, yanking on the collar of his robe.

"There was a servitor of Lolth in Cormanthor before I arrived," Drizzt spat, putting himself nose to nose with the priest, who gave a bemused expression. "Fielder told me he helped bring her down; a female drider, maybe something more."

Maz's confused expression darkened as he too had a realization.

"Her name was Hallisstra Melarn," Maz said painfully. "She was part of Valas Hune's company when they met with House Jaelre, only Hallisstra became separated from the group, met a troupe of Dancing Bitches first before rejoining her party. She would convert, becoming a priestess of Eilistraee and beign sent on a mission to the Demonweb to destroy Lolth. The story is much more complicated, though I will say Lolth woke right before Hallisstra landed the killing blow. To say she became a drider is putting it lightly; Lolth cursed her for eternity to be her ever tormented minion, her Lady Penitent. She was sicked on the followers of Lolth's children, killing a hundred of our brothers and sisters before a group of rangers, wood elves, and other Auzcovyn launched an attack that at least put her out of commission for a while."

"So Fielder was on our side for a moment," Entreri said.

"Fielder is a hiresword who lingers around Cormanthor waiting for some coin or some kill and usually in varying order," Mazn'reysla said. "I did not meet him personally before this journey, though his name was known in our circles; any cause for a price and the Lady Penitent was no exception. And no I have no idea if that has changed with him wearing Malar's bracer."

"But the Lady Penitent might still be kept in her pen," Drizzt said. "Maybe Lolth is holding onto her so she can be joined by another hideous creature; one who worshipped her son working along side the one who worshipped her daughter."

"Maybe the Spider Queen will gain two more minions under the circumstances," Entreri said, the reality making his blood run cold; Jarlaxle was marked by a force more horrifying than Moril. "Though I'll be damned if that happens."

"Artemis, I say we catch up with our other companions and kill us some clowns," Drizzt said, gently brushing Mazn'reysla's cheek before coming to a slow stand.

Entreri nodded with a sneer.


	25. Stirrings

**The Lesser Evil: Hooligan's Holiday**

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of R.A. Salvatore/Wizards of the Coast ©. I don't own them; I'm just examining all their possibilities.

**Chapter 25: Stirrings**

"We proceed from here, we're walking into a trap," Entreri said, crossing his arms and looking into the faces of every member of their group gathered around the fire. "I'm not going to dip that fact in honey for any of you, nor am I issuing a threat. Just stating a fact."

Drizzt leaned further against the boulder and nodded, seeing a look of silent agreement on Wenthias' face while other faces were confused or irritated.

By now every member of the party had settled around the Banite's camp, all but Drizzt and Entreri were eating a trencher of roast beef or picking from the spit with a knife or a fork. They were also the ones not engaging in idle chit chat as the group got settled into the area after coming from the horrendous scene at the Vhaeraunites' camp.

Mazn'reysla had melded right into the group, exchanging pleasantries with Asorath and a few glances of recognition with Fielder before getting a trencher heaped with meat. Drizzt was hardly hungry and hardly trusted this group enough to eat their food, though looked at Maz shoving mouthfuls of beef into his mouth with a smile; after what he had been through he was famished.

Entreri's only thought was getting back to business; any pleasantries could wait until these idiots finally proved themselves and the whole nastiness hanging over them was dealt with. After five minutes, he and Drizzt stood in front of the group to finally end the social hour and address the ever pressing matter at hand.

"I believe the more we linger the more precarious our position becomes," Wenthias said, tearing a small, juice-soaked piece off his bread trencher and nibbling it. "This is the second time he has launched an attack this scope on his pursuers; two almost dying and one being claimed by his powers. The fact Moril has claimed your companion now after possessing him for so long is indeed an indicator that, in the words of Master Entreri, the gauntlet has been thrown."

The blackguard gave Entreri and Drizzt a semi-knowing look neither of them appreciated, though he had it right regardless and they knew that more than any of the others could assume.

"Perhaps the timing of our union was also in his plans as well," Wenthias continued. "After all Moril wiped out two champions after they had crossed paths and traveled together."

Drizzt and Entreri remained stone-faced, both hiding every doubt they still had about the Brute Squad's involvement or noninvolvement in the massacre on the Dragonmere.

"There are no coincidences," Drizzt said. "Moril is sliding his pieces into position."

"What just happened was his attempt at check, or at least a feint," Entreri said. "Moril is, however, a force of sheer chaos; completely desperate, completely insane."

"So he is like a wolf; impeccable strategist, yet a bloodthirsty animal by nature," Wenthias said, glancing at Drizzt before putting his gaze on Fielder. "Truly the worst kind of foe."

"No shit," Fielder said, looking a little annoyed with Wenthias' comment which was a good indicator he wasn't a blind follower even though he put up such airs. "Sounds like a rabid wolf to me, though these three fun boys have dealt with the asshole a bit more."

"Rabid wolf would probably be the best description," Entreri said, "and it means we have to take all his little quirks into account. Now his pieces are lined up, he has drawn us out of our holes and ready to charge at him, and he and all his fun little friends are located in a series of cramped caverns. As I said before, we go after him we're walking into a trap whether it turns out in our favor or not."

"But if we stay planted he'll only come after us again," Asorath said between mouthfuls of meat. "Maybe with far nastier toys. Then there's your companion and how much you are willing to risk for him is your business."

"I believe, gentlemen, this is what they call a fucked if you do, fucked if you don't situation," Fielder said. "Though I'm more interested in fucking something over than getting fucked myself."

"Completely agreed," Drizzt said. "Action is the only thing that's going to put an end to this and he's going to be expecting us anytime whether now or a month from now. Might as well strike while the iron's hot so to speak."

His lavender eyes fell to every member of the group, though his peripheral vision lingered on Regis half a second longer. The halfling shoved another mound of meat into his mouth while looking around nervously. One hand was on his trencher and one hand wiped the juices on his vest, though his hand brushed across a pouch in his belt for a moment before returning to his trencher.

There were a thousand different things that could have been in that pouch though one possibility made Drizzt's skin crawl; one onyx figurine of a panther Drizzt had called his best friend in the best and worst moments of his life. The one friend he gave up in an act of cowardice, the one friend who could still be there.

He turned away, not giving away his numb curiosity to Regis. If Guenwhyvar's figurine was indeed in that pouch, all would be revealed soon enough; the panther would be a powerful tool against Moril and his minions no matter who she called master.

"So if that's the will of the party, we need some plans," Entreri said.

"You know the exact location of the temple in proximity to this area," Wenthias stated as much as asked.

"That we do," Drizzt said, though it was partially a lie. He had no idea where House Mourbasin was located, though his human companion apparently had learned that information from Moril's essence; a situation he was far from comfortable with but knew he had to trust Entreri on this one, or at least watch him constantly. It had to look like Drizzt was the expert on the subject under the circumstances and Drizzt was mostly improvising on what information he received from Entreri. "At least a few hours travel from here, a simple route that stops being simple once we reach the caverns."

Varying levels of discomfort formed on the faces of the rest of the party, save for Maz who chewed his meat with a hint of a happy smile and was seemingly oblivious to the rest of the conversation…seemingly that is. Linuin glared at Drizzt and Regis shifted uncomfortably, as Wenthias and Fielder grimaced and Asorath rolled his eyes. Entreri also looked less than happy at the possibility, though he knew from Saerloon on that would be the reality.

"How far down into the Underdark are we going," Wenthias asked with an irritated sigh.

"Three miles at the most," Maz said, his speech slightly muffled by the wad of beef in his mouth he swallowed a moment later. "Though the tunnels are winding. Native monsters there are few thanks to our wards, though Moril's monsters are another matter."

"I assume you mean the tumbling clowns," Wenthias said. "Do you have any more knowledge of what else he might be keeping in there?"

"Yes," Maz replied with a smile. "Anything else he may have made. He is a rather creative necromancer after all in case you hadn't heard."

Fielder chuckled in response and Wenthias rolled his eyes.

"In other words, we could be in for anything," Drizzt said.

"We will need improvisation then," Wenthias said.

"From what we've seen, Moril may just stay in his hole and throw at us what he can," Entreri said. "Spells and monsters from afar have been his way and it seems he did communicate with us on one occasion through Jarlaxle's mouth and that was only taunting."

"Is there any possibility Moril might occupy any other forms now," Wenthias said. "Perhaps a lich, a wraith."

"No he is still mortal, I can tell you that much," Maz said, his gaze fixed on Wenthias. "Undead power has indicators like the taste of a fine wine. Moril is flat cider, though he may have gained more kick. Regardless, he is still easily spilled with the right tip of the glass."

Drizzt held back a smile at watching the perplexed look on Wenthias' face, the blackguard looking at Mazn'reysla as if he was were completely bizarre yet somehow making sense.

"Though I can imagine getting to our quarry may be a challenge, whether he is staying behind walls or fighting out in the open," Wenthias said. "Perhaps that should be our ultimate aim; plow through the ranks of monsters and get to the golden prize hiding wherever. If we face chaos, there must be a center of it."

"That may be our best bet," Entreri said, knowing that would have to be the case before Wenthias even said it. That was their ultimate goal; get Moril. Cut off the head and the rest of the snake dies. "We will have to deal with his arms as they come, do not linger too long on one fight, get through it enough to continue to the other side."

"But they are over a hundred zombies plus who knows how many other minions," Linuin said, his tone less hissing.

"We plow through them all," Drizzt said, stepping out a few more steps. "It's the best godsdamned plan we have under the circumstances. Every dealing we've had with Moril has been a cluster fuck, might as well fight fire with fire."

"I like how you think," Fielder said, pulling out his dagger and twirling it in a grand blur before slipping it back in its sheathe.

Wenthias tapped his chin with a gloved finger, looking as if he was mulling over a possibility he was not entirely fond of. The smile that suddenly formed on his face was none too comforting to Drizzt and Entreri.

---------

"They are marching to their own destructions. Marching to a tune of their own arrogance, their own lies; marching in with their godly handlers poking at their backs or dangling a piece of juicy meat in front of them. And they are marching right toward us."

The words seemed to float through the universe, Moril's voice physical and disembodied and loud; oh so loud. His proceeding cackle grated on every last feeling nerve.

To Jarlaxle it was a marvelous feeling; the feeling he still sensed something.

Long fingernails gently combed through his long hair again, another subtle necromantic manipulation; just like the merchants who would enter the Green Mushroom and sit him down on their knees. Hands, sometimes filthy, sometimes perfumed and impeccably cleaned, caressing those locks of soft white hair on the child peasant.

How he had so enjoyed taking a dagger and slicing off every cursed lock the second after his graduation. Even having short hair had not been enough; every trace was a reminder of a time when he was powerless. Then he would have power, then he would take a razor to his scalp.

The most powerful male in Menzoberranzan was completely bald.

The thought was a reminder he still felt something, though kept the momentary reflection floating in the recesses of his brain where it couldn't be snatched up. It was a meditation he taught himself after working with psions for so many centuries; keeping his thoughts buried underneath a mass of other recollections so they would be harder to peel out and maintain business-like airs.

Moril would never reach such thoughts, Jarlaxle learned quickly; Moril's ability to read minds only went so far. He was but a necromancer after all and not a mind mage.

Such thought processes staved off oblivion, perhaps could be his last way to find an escape from the hell he found himself in now. The moment he stopped thinking was the moment he would stop being, though he knew there very little of himself now. Nothing more than a mass of thoughts, Moril controlled the rest.

"Watch them scurrying, my son," the sickening voice said again; a voice dripping with vileness, a voice only slightly lower than Jarlaxle's own; they may have sounded alike to the right ears.

Jarlaxle found the power to blink a few times, the few remaining vestiges of his conscious mind realizing he had been staring at lichen patterns on the stone in front of him. He was drifting off again, or maybe trying to avoid looking down and seeing what Moril was gloating at.

His eyes trailed down anyway, whether under Moril's power or because of his own curiosity. Jarlaxle's gaze went to a stone scrying pool on a pedestal below him, the water a bright red gloss over a sweeping image.

A rocky, wood-covered land blackened by night. A group of men walking onward, determination in all eyes though their formation was loose. A series of faces, some he recognized in passing, four he recognized immediately; their presences another kick in his dwindling consciousness especially a bearded human with long black hair and a perpetual scowl who looked to be leading the group.

Artemis Entreri, Jarlaxle thought, a part of him almost beaming. And he's alive.

"He whored himself to his god at the right time," Moril responded, hearing that thought clearly. "Or else the he offered his soul to the Masked brat to get his hand back. Not to worry, my son, you will finish him off soon enough."

Jarlaxle did register the feeling of his lurching stomach at those words, though dropped back into his meditation lest this parasite get any more hints.

None spoke save for a few observations on the terrain. One human in green woodland leathers did catch up to Entreri, a face Jarlaxle recognized from one point in ancient history…the Faerie's Tail in Scardale. The ranger who clashed egos with Drizzt in Cormanthor. Fielder.

"You hang around Xalryln's group right?" Fielder said to Entreri with a manure-eating grin. Entreri merely rolled his eyes and gave him a glance. "You know Maylae right? Yeah, she's an awesome lay isn't she? The things that elf can do in a bunk, I mean fucking bards should be writing about that. Just don't think yourself special though, she's fucked half of Cormanthor. Aden has too so it's not like you're stealing exclusive cargo."

Jarlaxle's face remained stony though a beaming grin formed in the deeper recesses of his brain; Entreri and Maylae shared a…special moment before the troupe left Cormanthor.

His momentary mirth was sucked out yet again by a sickening feeling over him; a shared feeling from Moril who seemed less than pleased about something.

"Arik Madsalar travels with Vhaeraun's champions," Moril said, giving what was meant to be a sniff but sounded like a grotesque nasal gurgle through the bud where his nose had once been. "And Gherbod Wenthias right next to them. See the little peck hobbling along looking like a scared bird? Regis of Lonelywood. Mark them well, my son. They all travel together, so much easier to crush them all at once. Though there is one special creature I want you to destroy first."

A thin finger covered in a black gauntlet pointed to the water. A young drow with short white hair and lavender eyes that pierced through the active remains of Jarlaxle's soul was right underneath his pointed finger.

"Drizzt Do'Urden, Vhaeraun's champion, a formidable foe I have heard," Moril said, the smiling side of his mouth turning up a bit more and stretching the scars around his face. "Though you are his match. You were so in life, my son, but with my power he will be an easy slaughter. Kill him first and move onto the rest of the champions."

Jarlaxle paused a moment, allowing his tentative concentration focus on his physical form. "As you were in life?" Was he indeed dead? He concentrated, though concentration that faded. It was like he was becoming further disconnected from his body, though his further effort returned that concentration.

The thrumming of blood still sounded in his eardrums, though weakly. His tenuous concentration pulled back again as if exhausted, or as if gently pushed back.

"Do not strain yourself with the concerns of life, my child," Moril said, a hand going through his newly-grown hair again. "By definition you live, though soon you will have to learn to pull away from your living state and transcend."

Moril gently rubbed the bottom of Jarlaxle's slender chin, making him feel more relaxed. What was the living state good for anyway, he thought.

His subconscious mind gave him a stern look, though he knew it would be one of its last actions. Moril was right, or would make himself right; his consciousness was already fading and soon he would be nothing but a docile tool. This couldn't happen.

Maybe these were the thoughts that went through Zaknafein's mind as a spirit wraith, maybe his consciousness was cowed into oblivion and peacefully let Malice take the reins.

Something made Zak let go; the same set of purple eyes Jarlaxle gazed on now. Those eyes likely bore less color of life now than when Jarlaxle's old friend gazed on them last, though the same man was behind them; changed, but the same.

Drizzt kept to the front of the group a few steps behind Entreri, scanning the perimeter with his face in a look of serious determination mixed with weariness.

Jarlaxle gazed at his protégé, though felt sickened by his presence for some reason; sickened by some force in the direction of his back. It was the shortsword, Jarlaxle remembered; the sword of his god that had made Moril cower.

Jarlaxle's subconscious mind gave another grimace; his own feelings were once again being buried. He was tempted to throw the full image of the sword and all the hurt is caused into Moril's mind, though his thoughts remained silent.

The only hope he had of getting out of this was to cooperate, though not succumb.

Though he had little to look forward to anyway, he thought. Gromph schemed to put him here, the Vhaeraunite priests did nothing to release his pain, Drizzt and Entreri were plotting to kill him anyway, he was too decrepit alone to lead his mercenary band. Fortunately he had been found by his long lost father and had a true purpose now.

Jarlaxle would have gone completely into despair if his subconscious mind didn't remind him that all of those thoughts were prodded by Moril; a reminder he was thinking too loud.

"But you have a true higher purpose as my left hand," Moril said, the mass of scars that was his face leaning into Jarlaxle's. "Do not despair. You will have your ultimate happiness soon."

Jarlaxle merely nodded, wanting to clear his mind at last.

He stared at the wall, feeling his consciousness fading a bit more as if his mind was entering a waking sleep. The feeling of cold hands brushing against his bare sides and the Moril's horrible visage right in his face jolted his remaining senses awake. Cold, hard flesh was replaced with cold, hard steel. He let his eyes trail down to see a breastplate over his chest of drow fit. A clown face was emblazoned on the front; black and white embossed metal bearing the black diamond eyes and mouth with one side in a grimace, one side in a smirk. A set of shoulder plates was soon in Moril's hands and he placed them gently on each of Jarlaxle's shoulders.

Jarlaxle moved his arm slightly to his side, feeling the hilts of two longswords strapped to each hip; each bearing a more powerful magic than his usual weapons.

Moril's gauntleted hand patted Jarlaxle on the head as the other smeared a cold wetness on his face. Moril pulled back his hand, showing the remnants of a white cream on his fingers; stage make-up.

"Go forth now, my son," Moril said, looking over to the mass of scarred zombies twitching around in rows. "You are now a face of destruction. While mine is horrific, yours is beautiful; we are the perfect match."

Jarlaxle internally smiled before all thoughts gradually faded. All he felt now was rage. All he wanted was to taste the blood of a certain lavender-eyed drow in Vhaeraun's slavery.

One lingering spot of clarity was quickly hidden away for later use.

---------

Stealth was hardly the way Linuin was handling his plots, though Drizzt and Entreri both suspected there was a reason for this.

The sound of elven feet shuffling across the dried grass to one direction was grating after spending two hours walking across the silent landscape lit with a few faint glowballs with the strength of dying candles for those whose eyes could not pierce through the darkness.

Drizzt and Entreri gave each other irritated looks as they heard Linuin's robes swishing against the brush in the direction where they knew the blackguard Wenthias was walking. Each party member kept in their own personal space while walking and would earn a glare from the person near them if they strayed too far close to or behind someone. Everyone was on their own honor system under the circumstances, though everyone else was watching their backs.

Fielder was the only one wandering around the group, though he readied no weapons; something noted by everyone else in the party. Linuin had now broken from his position and was making a beeline for Wenthias for reasons Drizzt and Entreri already knew. They kept their concentration ahead, though locked their ears on Linuin's quiet huffs which were likely to become whispers against them any moment.

"We walk for two hours at their lead," Linuin whispered low enough to only be heard by those really straining to pay attention. "It is pitch black and silent as shadow. This territory becomes more and more unhallowed the more we continue and our course allegedly leads to the Underdark. You can smell the treachery, mi'lord."

"You can smell the stink of Moril," Drizzt said in a louder, matter-of-fact tone. "And he is in our unhallowed temple and we obviously know where that is."

Drizzt looked over his shoulder to see Linuin give a sneer while Wenthias seemed to pay no attention to the conversation. He smirked and continued forward, giving a glance to Entreri as if to say "you had better know what the Hell's you're doing."

Entreri returned the glance with a calm grimace and a nod. He didn't need to hear him speak his mild suspicion; it was plastered over his face.

There were a thousand things out of place with this and both of them knew that. Treachery on Entreri's part was not so much a concern for Drizzt; he had no reason to lie to the rest of the party and would get ripped apart by the other seven if he tried anything…as long as Moril's essence had really been destroyed after being sucked out of Mazn'reysla. Entreri had said the message had come to him as if he was spying on Moril in the house, though Moril likely sent those images on the astral line to lure the party into a trap.

Entreri knew this; Drizzt knew his human companion expected a trap around every corner and wasn't stupid enough to think Moril had no idea they were coming especially with everything that had happened in the past day.

Now they were dealing with a chaotic and unseen enemy who seemed to be everywhere. Improvisation would have to be the key factor; moving forward and expecting monsters around every corner.

Moril was only one individual, though a powerful individual surrounded by so many nasty minions who could create massive damage at his command, though still only one individual. Moril was only the sum of his guardians and guardians could be slipped through, but then Moril himself could have been loaded with so much power by now he was more difficult to deal with.

"The clowns can be destroyed without explosion," Mazn'reysla softly said to all members of the party. "They are undead like any others. Disrupting spells will work as will a blow to the neck. They're death tumble will be obvious, though it will not start immediately. When the tumble starts you have three minutes to destroy them before they explode."

"Mind telling us how you know this," Linuin huffed.

"That will be a story for a later time, Linuin," Wenthias piped up. "If you follow his advice and walk from here alive, you know it was good advice."

"So what if a hundred of them come after us at the same time," Regis asked.

"Moril won't want to waste all of his reserves," Maz replied.

"Don't worry about that little man," Fielder said. "The big man and I have a few little tricks to make sure that don't happen."

Drizzt and Entreri exchanged glances, both only guessing what Fielder had in mind. The tricks of the "big man," likely Wenthias, probably involved summoning a lot of devils; a likely useful weapon in his arsenal though neither of them trusted his use of them.

Drizzt casually glance back to Regis, seeing him nod at Wenthias while patting that same pouch.

Drizzt looked ahead, going numb for a moment as his suspicion was likely confirmed. It was still a long shot; Regis could have acquired so many magical toys in the past year and a half. His instincts, however, screamed he was right; the group would soon be joined by a 600 pound weapon of fur and claws. Whether she would see her old master as friend or foe was a different story.

A sharp elbow connecting with his ribs broke him from his heavy contemplation. He looked at Entreri, who remained stone faced save for a nod and a turn of his black eyes in a direction in front of them. Drizzt followed his glance, seeing a copse of dead trees growing on the hill over a gray, moss-covered cliff.

His infrared vision scanned the rock formation, seeing a large narrow crack that glowed an icy blue. The essence of magic poured from the rocks, especially around this one crack; the entrance to the caverns.

Drizzt glanced back at the other members of the party and nodded in the cliff's direction, pointing at them and silently indicating for them to spread out.

Wenthias nodded, though the other party members merely looked at Drizzt for a moment. Fielder shrugged and took a flanking position, grabbing Regis by the shoulder and dragging him along.

Drizzt did see Regis pat grab the pouch again, though his slightly tanned face was a shade of ash gray. The halfling visibly shivered, looking around frantically as he drew his mace. He sensed something, Drizzt thought. Likely a fell presence that affected him more than it did the other hardened villains in the group…himself included.

Asorath and Linuin looked at Wenthias, Asorath with a look of curiosity and Linuin glaring. Wenthias' face twisted in impatience as he gave the same direction Drizzt gave a moment ago. Drizzt rolled his eyes, watching Wenthias motion to Linuin to take a more behind position and motioning to Mazn'reysla to take the opposite side. Maz nodded, casually moving to his position while flashing Drizzt a small smile.

Drizzt returned the look with a grimace and another eye roll. As expected, the there were two different team leaders here, though they would all have to gel in order to get their task accomplished; unless a few of them had less cooperative ideas in mind. Drizzt, however, was also relying on Entreri for directions; an uncomfortable theory but, once again, Drizzt reminded himself he had little reason to distrust his companion…but every reason to keep a close eye on him.

A rapid movement from the corner of his eye caught his attention. Drizzt's scimitars were in his hands in a second as a pink blur raced toward him. On instinct, he slashed at the small mass of pink fur and gnashing teeth flying at him from the brush.

A small head with long, floppy ears fell to the ground before its body. A second later, several others of the same creature jumped out of the woods in a blur; all jumping for every member of the group.

Drizzt allowed himself a second to peer through the snarling blur to see what exactly was attacking them; the realization causing his brows to furrow and his jaw drop open.

They were large poodles; all dyed a messy pink, or the color of blood diluted with water. A black and white ruffled collar surrounded each of their furry necks; the same ruffle he had seen Moril wearing in his earlier vision. Their teeth were abnormally large and long as their eyes glowed amber.

Drizzt was soon holding up his scimitars as another demonic poodle did a high jump as it gnashed its teeth with a trajectory toward his throat. He easily beheaded the creature in a scissor cut, seeing another creature skewered on the end of Charon's Claw as a magic missile from Linuin's hand blasted the head of another into dust; Linuin whimpering as his eyes widened with the sight.

A green glowing blade was in Asorath's hand, no in his hand and ably hacking apart creatures. Wenthias pummeled the skull of another one with his mace as another creature was flying for Drizzt. The thing came to a land before Icingdeath could slice into it, though it was not able to dodge a downward slice from WraithKiss as easily.

As the poodle fell, another ran towards him only to be clawed to the ground by a small, yet powerful cat. Azril's red eyes were wide as she screeched before biting into the poodle's throat and severing its head almost immediately with the speed and force of her attack.

Three of the beasts came after Fielder at once but were mowed down in a whoosh of blades.

"Plow through them, get to the cavern," Entreri shouted, cutting down one poodle while running across the field for the cliffs.

Drizzt sliced at another creature lunging after him that managed to dodge one blade, then the other then having its head skewered by Icingdeath. A small cloud of acid gas descended on another one racing toward him before it dissolved with one last growl. Drizzt looked back to see Mazn'reysla still holding his wand out for the next poodle and smiling.

Drizzt returned the glance for a moment before seeing more creatures out of the corner of his eye and hearing two words from Regis he never thought he would hear again.

"Come, Guenwhyvar," the halfling shouted.

A moment later three poodles were crushed under the weight of a massive black panther. Another lunged forward, but a set of raking claws tore it in half. The teeth still gnashed for a moment before another mass of teeth crushed it.

Cold flowed through Drizzt's veins, his eyes locked on his long lost companion; the one who saved his life and his sanity in the Underdark, his companion through all those decades on the Surface. His closest most trusted companion. The best friend he has dismissed after that battle with the bandits, right before Catti-brie was murdered. The friend whose statue he left behind in his moment of utter despair, when all his other old friends had abandoned him and his only course was to abandon her to more trusting hands than his own.

A hot tear unleashed itself from his eye, triggering a snarl as he ran at three more of the creatures. A mass of whirring blades later, they were in pieces of dust before him as another three raced at him and met the same fate.

He met Mazn'reysla's glance for a moment before seeing a cloud of shadow pour from his hand.

The sight froze the Hunter where he stood, Drizzt's more reasoned mind falling to the shortsword on his back, which was in his hand a moment later as Icingdeath was in its sheathe. He pointed it around the perimeter, envisioning a mass of shadow pouring from the end of the blade.

An inky blackness shot out, hitting all of his companions and causing a few starts, yelps, and looks of annoyance, but causing nothing more to them than a slight chill as the shadow poured around them. The yelping dogs ran after them again, only to run in the opposite direction of the shadow. Some ran forward and were touched by the inky tendrils. In a second their bodies glowed white as they disintegrated into dust.

As Drizzt and Maz's clouds spread, soon the dogs were either running or destroyed.

"Saving some pets for the rest of us or did you just figure that trick out," Linuin snapped.

Drizzt didn't bother looking at him, seeing the rest of the party still inching forward, surrounded by piles of dust where the bodies of undead poodles had once been.

Another blur of motion caught his eye. Drizzt looked forward to see a pair of green eyes and a fur-covered face that was lost to him for what seemed like ancient history. Guenwhyvar bounded forward with a fast path toward Drizzt, who stood still; swords at his side and too exhausted to move.

Entreri tried to catch up with the animal, a branch in his hand as he tried to swat at her backside. She was too fast, bounding for Drizzt who stared into those eyes and readied himself for her final rejection. She could probably smell the blood on him, smell his coldness and rage, smell her old companion who had become a murdering monster like Masoj Hun'nett and so many of her other fell masters.

Drizzt felt his knees give out the moment he felt those rubbery paws against his shoulder. Her massive body pushed him backwards and onto the ground as she lay on top of him. Drizzt readied himself for those clenching jaws, those sharp claws.

A rough, wet tongue lapping his jaw was all he got.

He looked up, seeing a light shine in Guenwhyvar's eyes as she lapped the sided of his face lovingly; her paws gently shifting her weight between him and the ground as her warm body pressed against him.

There was no rage here, no sadness; only the glee of two old friends reuniting after being separated by tragedy and fate. Drizzt smiled, a sob escaping his throat. He put all thoughts of the Brute Squad, or Moril, of Maz and Entreri out of his mind as he threw his arms around Guenwhyvar's neck and buried his face in her fur and sobbing.

He was with his companion again; his closest…most non-judging companion. Guenwhyvar was an animal after all; a hunter of instinct who had no need for wanton slaughter yet did not exist by moralities either.

Drizzt laughed, pulling back and gently pushing Guen off him. He stood up, his tears clearing as he scratched behind her ear. The rest of the Brute Squad stared at him, though surprisingly Fielder and Wenthias had their own respective smiles. Regis looked at Guen, his face in somehow resigned.

Guen had recognized her true master. After several decades by each other's side, a year and a half of changing fortunes and philosophies would not completely separate Drizzt and Guenwhyvar.

A yowl sounded from behind Guen, prompting the panther to casually look behind her to see a small, yet muscular cat hissing at her. Azril clawed at her tail, which she whipped out of the way before licking the cat's face. Azril skittered back a step, completely put off by this reaction though somewhat intrigued.

"You and your godsdamned pet can have your own time together later," Entreri said, standing several feet away, one foot on a tree stump as he faced the group with an annoyed look. "We still have a clown to deal with."

The group slowly ambled forward, though another movement from the direction of the cave caught all eyes.

All party members froze, readying their weapons. Guenwhyvar circled around Drizzt and Regis, her eyes locked on the cave.

Entreri 's gaze was on the staring party members, yet the movement was hard to ignore as was the rhythmic swishing and crunching of brush.

"To the caves now," Entreri said, turning around in a run.

A mass of feet rushed behind him, all eyes getting a view of one lithe figure in a black and white leotard as another one was tumbling after.


	26. Into the Funhouse

**The Lesser Evil: Hooligan's Holiday**

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of R.A. Salvatore/Wizards of the Coast ©. I don't own them; I'm just examining all their possibilities.

**Chapter 26: Into the Funhouse**

Author's Note: This is the first of two chapters that will contain the grand action finale of this story. I had the original intention of making this one chapter, though it ended up longer than I had wanted so the really good stuff will take place next chapter.

Weapons were out, feet hit the ground, and the narrow, magically lit crack of the cave was all any eye could see despite how it frequently disappeared behind the jumping, twisting forms of two…now three lithe creatures in clown suits.

The children of House Mourbasin, the thought floating through a part of Drizzt's mind that had become unsettlingly clear as he ran; Icingdeath and WraithKiss in his hands, Guenwhyvar running after him as he made a mad spring for the cave. They were the defiled children of House Mourbasin who would have eternal peace at last after all that rapist of souls had done to them.

The clowns were not waiting to come after them before jumping high in the air into impossible and impossibly fast twists, tumbles, and turns that made them seem to fly.

Drizzt and Mazn'reysla had seen this dance and knew full well what would happen if they stood still for but a moment and that was only with two of them. Three of them was just not going to happen.

The party scattered as they came closer to the clowns, moving in their own directions and trying to find their own course to enter the caves and get some headway into the clowns if needed.

"Get into the cave, don't linger for a fight," Entreri shouted, his body almost a blur as he sprinted toward the cave entrance. Charon's Claw was held high, however, if the fight could not be avoided.

Entreri's shout of instruction was soon followed by a shout of disbelief as another figure from their group did his own somersaults and landed close to the clown's trajectory. Fielder held his longsword in such a way he could easily to multiple flips and still stay armed when the fight finally came. The braid on his beard repeatedly whipped in front of his mouth, yet the gleeful smile on his face was unmistakable.

One clown did a rapid backflip, narrowly avoiding a sword blade across the throat. Drizzt's eyes widened; this one human was able to get that close to the clowns in mid tumble.

The clown dodged the sword and did a side flip with Fielder following in the same speed. The undead creature landed on his hand as Fielder leapt over him; sword connecting with neck and clown crumbling to the ground with a nondescript thud with head in one location and body in another. Fielder landed a few feet away on both feet with arms in the air as he took to the ground running; huge smile still on his face as he palmed his sword again and flipped towards another clown.

"We don't have time for this horse shit!" Entreri screamed, teeth clenched and eyes throwing a mass of daggers at Fielder.

Drizzt sprinted close to Entreri, making eye contact with him.

"Better him than us," Drizzt said, looking back over and seeing Fielder dancing with another clown.

Fielder did a few more flips, passing the clown once then twice before leaping over it repeatedly. His sword wasn't as ready as before, making it obvious to all he was playing with the clown and not aiming to kill it right away.

Drizzt took a few looks at Fielder before seeing a whirling mass of blades fly beside them both and circle the head of the third clown in the midst of the death tumble. The clown tumbled a bit more with the blades twirling around its head yet not getting close enough to touch him. An enraged look was on Linuin's face as he tried to concentrate on the blades to get them to close in on the clown but nothing was working and the spell would likely expire.

Fielder did another flip over the clown he was playing with before grabbing a stone from the ground and throwing it in time with the third clown's somersault. The rock fell directly under the clown's hand before it hit the ground, causing the clown to fall at a more awkward angle and letting the whirring blades saw through its skull in a mess of black blood and brains. A second later the body dropped to the ground, head no more than a mass of pulp.

Drizzt allowed himself a few lingering looks at the scene of carnage before turning his full gaze on Entreri, who bounded for the cave; eyes forward and set, legs a blur of motion. Drizzt could see it in his eyes; he was pure instinct now, ignoring all distractions with his only focus on getting into that cave and ripping Moril apart.

Another tumbling figure emerged from the glowing crack in the cave; clearly a portal Moril was sending his minions out of though getting in may have been a different matter. The figure barely leapt from the ground before being surrounded by multiple walls of ash that confused it before a red blade sliced cleanly through its neck. Entreri's face remained stony, but Drizzt could see the fires in his eyes.

"Jarlaxle is back there," he said softly in the assassin's direction, knowing it could just take a few sparking words to further set him to his fire. It was a tactic that could have backfired horribly, but Drizzt had to play this card. Fielder and Linuin were taking too long with the clowns and they were best dispatched before they started their tumble.

Another figure emerged that fell to pieces with three rapid slices of Charon's Claw. Entreri's jaw muscles were clenched as he took a few rapid slices at another one that managed to do a flip into the air before a leap and a series of rapid sword slices put a head and body on the ground before the assassin returned to his feet.

Drizzt smiled, lunging at another figure that emerged from the crack. The clown flipped, lost a leg, returned to the ground, and had its head fly off in a cross cut by Icingdeath and WraithKiss.

Drizzt looked back to see Wenthias swiping at a few clowns with his mace, though his effort was noticeably lacking for whatever reason. Asorath was also missing among the constant battle between the clowns appearing around them and the ranger and wizard already fighting them. It was an observation that twisted Drizzt's stomach but made him take a few breaths while readying himself for whatever consequences of this. Regis was swiping at the legs of clowns, tangling them for Wenthias to go after; a tactic that actually made the halfling useful in this one instance.

He wanted to spot Mazn'reysla in the crowd, but another clown appearing in front of him took his attention back to the moment. The clown managed to jerk away from a slice by Icingdeath and launch into a double flip. Drizzt growled, kicking the rock to send him flying in the air in a similar flip to meet up with the clown before it did any other moves. On a thought, thick shadows poured from WraithKiss as he lunged at the creature with Icingdeath in a feint as WraithKiss smashed into the back of its neck as it was dodging away. The clown gave a jerk, though tried to do a flopping flip. Drizzt leapt into the air and kicked into the slowed clown's head, its neck cracking as its head flew onto the ground.

The moment Drizzt dispatched his clown, another one emerged from the crack and managed to jerk itself away from Charon's Claw. Entreri summoned a wall of ash from the blade, though his battle lust was significantly waning. He did a spinning kick at the clown's midsection, though it kicked up right as his foot came out and leapt into the air. Entreri leapt along with it, doing a spinning kick in the direction of its flip, though it flipped the other way and avoided his foot.

The clown's momentum picked up and did a front somersault before kicking into a spinning backflip. Entreri managed his own frontward flip but was becoming more and more enraged with the circumstances by the second. It was becoming pointless; every time they got near the front entrance to this cave, a new clown appeared. Letting them continue their flips would be beyond disastrous, though with every clown they fought the more time they lost against Moril; and the more time Moril gained to come up with whatever other plots may have been up his billowed sleeves including any plans involving Jarlaxle.

This was the front entrance he had seen in his vision…the front entrance Moril likely showed him. Entreri growled, his rising rage snapping him in a large leap and in a spinning kick that connected squarely with the side of the clown's head. The clown lost momentum as a wall of ash formed around it, further disorienting it as Charon's Claw sliced through its neck and the dagger swatted the head even further out on the field.

"There has to be another way in," he thought, his thoughts taking a loudness inside his mind as cold pressed against his chest. "Whoever the Hells is listening on our side, how do we get in?"

His astral words were strongly focused; guided by rage and a sudden mental clarity he had that seemed to freeze time and make everything go in slow motion. He felt a prickling cold on the back of his neck as an invisible urge called him to look up to the rocks.

A male drow in a black robe, a figure Entreri remembered from his dreams, stood on top of one crevice ten feet from the ground; a ghostly hand pointing at a crack in the stones before turning to shadows and sucking inside. A series of words ran through his mind and stuck there.

"Appreciated Velz," he mouthed as another clown emerged from the crack.

He cracked the pommel of his dagger against the clown's skull the moment it appeared, though it began its spin before Entreri, fueled by adrenaline and a renewed energy, did his own spinning kick out against the clown's legs. The clown tripped and Entreri quickly launched himself into the air, cutting through the thing's neck as he leapt up on the rocks.

Entreri crouched down and stood up in a moment, throwing a rock he picked up at Drizzt. Drizzt was in the midst of a series of rapid feints against the spinning clown to distract it as the stone bounced gently off his pointed ear. A shadowed blade cut the clown's arm off as he quickly looked up at the direction of the hill to see Entreri running up the rocks and motioning for him to follow with a turn of his head.

Drizzt kicked up and ran in the direction of the rocks as another clown did a forward flip and managed to clip the side of his jaw with its heels. Drizzt jerked out of the way and did a cartwheel away from the clown before launching into a spin on top of the rocks before taking the clown's head off in a cross slice.

Entreri was still running up the steep rock, paying attention to his footing and everything around him. A hunting knife flew by his head and bounced against the shoulder of a clown emerging from a blue doorway in front of him. The clown was thrown back a step before trying to leap off the rock and taking Charon's Claw through the throat and as the dagger removed its head.

Entreri spun around and saw Drizzt do a series of swipes at another clown, doing his own cartwheel to follow the clown before he came to a crouch, his arms punching out and feinting at the clown before swiping its head off with Icingdeath.

Drizzt gave him a small smile while running in his direction. Entreri took a moment to pick the simple hunting knife off the rocks and throw it at Drizzt, who caught it perfectly by the handle and put it back in its simple sheathe. Drizzt ran up the hill as a familiar flash of blue light appeared in front of him.

He rolled his eyes, summoning more shadows from WraithKiss and hoping there was some way to use them against the clowns. He had hacked through several of them and not once did the sweeping shadows have the same effect as with the poodles.

The shoulder of a clown poked through the doorway and suddenly jerked as WraithKiss sunk into its shoulder. The clown tried to further struggle free, though the blue of the doorway was fading with the onslaught of shadows. In an instant, Icingdeath was in its sheathe and Shadowflash, the shortsword that had passed from Vhaeraun to Hallia Mourbasin to him, was in his other hand. Shadows poured from both blades as Drizzt sunk and sliced them over the sides of the doorway. The doorway disappeared in a puff of shadows, putting a sneering grin on Drizzt's face.

Entreri's eyes widened as his grip tightened on Charon's Claw. Moril's doorways could be closed with shadows, though he had no weapon that was an immediate shadow conductor. Charon's Claw was Netherese, though it had only been able to produce ash. But then he had taken in the energy of a shade, was wielding a Shadovar blade, and had a mutual agreement with a god of shadows; that all had to be good for something.

He continued up the hill, hearing Drizzt's footfalls behind him as he quieted his mind, allowing it to go into the reaches of the astral, though another direction than he one he had already seen. The darkness surrounding him became his focus as he imagined himself touching the darkness, making it his own.

A blue glow appeared in front of him for a moment before Charon's Claw sunk in. He took a breath and watched as a wave of blackness rushed from his blade. It looked like the ash wall he could normally produce, but the ash was more of a mist now; thick and freezing. The shadows formed a ring around the blue doorway before the light was consumed by the swirling blackness.

Drizzt gave a quiet chuckle. Entreri merely glanced back at him before running up the hill and hopping a few large stones to a certain crevice. Another blue door appeared in front of the human and was snuffed out a moment later by a few rapid swings of Charon's Claw and a swirl of shadow that trailed around the assassin's blade. A ring of blue appeared beside Drizzt and a whirl of WraithKiss and Shadowflash created a thick swirl of blackness before it was gone.

Drizzt lowered his weapons, only to see another blue ring and another cloud of shadows surround it and consume it. He looked to his side and immediately met the glowing red eyes of Mazn'reysla, who gave him a smile of malicious glee. Drizzt leaned forward and licked the tip of his nose before turning around and following Entreri, knowing the cleric was running across the rocks closely behind him.

Entreri steadied himself on a tree growing from the rock as he visualized the exact location where Velz appeared. He stopped, shuffling his feet from rock to another to a crevice before a feeling of familiar cold was right below his feet. He crouched to the ground, touching the rock and saying the words that popped into his mind.

There was no wave of shadows, no feeling of cold, just the blood pumping through his ears. A force pushed Drizzt into him. He at first pushed away, though kept Drizzt a few inches away from him. Entreri grabbed the drow's wrist; the sudden jar from Mazn'reysla appearing behind him with arms out startled him enough so his reflexes had little reaction time before Enteri pushed the tip of the shortsword into the rocks.

A series of words escaped his lips as if he had said those words thousands of times before; a dialect of drow but one with which he had never heard even in Menzoberranzan and around the Bregan D'aerthe members.

A mass of shadows poured up from the stones and a wave of cold washed over all. Entreri could see Mazn'reysla take a leap toward them and get sucked up by the shadows as the Blackguard Wenthias suddenly appeared behind the cleric and managed to jump forward in time to be pulled in.

The cold of shadows gave way to the moist humidity of a rocky wall and the slippery rock beneath their feet. Drizzt and Entreri's heads spun for a moment before suddenly gathering their bearings and looking around.

A wide expanse of black and red stone surrounded them; the air musty yet clean as small pools formed in the pockmarked rocks under their feet. It was the Underdark; Drizzt knew that well enough, though this was a shallow section judging by the smell of the air and the rock formations. It was just enough to not be completely on the surface yet hardly deep underground. They were probably down half a mile.

Wenthias immediately walked further away from the group looking around with calm alarm. Drizzt merely glanced at Entreri, giving him a raised eyebrow and a nod.

Entreri's black eyes, enhanced by his magical earring, scanned the length of the wide tunnel, his brain trying to catch up with this new experience and recall where his visions said Moril's headquarters was located. He stepped away from the group and urgently looked around, his eyes falling on one set of rocks as his mind suddenly jumped ahead down a corridor.

He looked behind the rock and saw an opening the right height and width for a slender humanoid. He glanced at his companions, knowing he should wait for them though was soon making the loose squeeze through the rock opening. Entreri's senses were back to instinct mode; all he could do now is be lead by his senses yet keep his guard constantly up.

Entreri sprinted down the corridor, hearing the shuffling of three other pairs of feet behind him as every sense was on complete edge. The narrow corridor gradually widened as the blackness lifted for a glowing light ahead. The party watched their respective footing on the dry stones, avoiding any moss or jagged outcroppings as all sprinted through the corridor with a mission.

The corridor opened to a wide expanse of cavern. All four of them remained on a wide outcropping of ledge along the high wall of the massive cave bathed in red light from the glowing moss and quartz veins that likely had been enchanted to provide more light.

The party clung to the wall as all eyes scanned the expanse of cavern and the mass of undead drow in black and white leotards twitching and walking in place. There was no tumbling, not even any sudden movements. The clowns were placed here for storage before Moril likely gave the orders and sent them out one by one.

Two clowns walked for the edge of the cave, where a faint red circle formed; likely the origin of the gate. The first clown shambled through the gateway, limbs suddenly tensed to begin the death tumble.

The clown disappeared into the red light for a moment before falling into pieces at the end of a longsword. Fielder pushed his way through the portal, leaping high up onto the rocks and scrambling up the side of the cave as if he were some kind of insect…or spider perhaps. None of the clowns paid him notice, none of them even putting a gaze or a twitch in his direction.

The other clown in line to enter the same doorway straightened, tightened its limbs, walked forward, and was thrown back by the force of a magic missile to the throat as Linuin stepped through the portal and took the thing's head off with another series of missiles. The elf reached through the portal and grabbed something he pulled forward to reveal as Regis clutching his mace while trembling.

Linuin enacted a levitation spell, dragging Regis into the air with him while paying no mind to the mass of clowns below. The two found their footing on another outcropping of rock.

Drizzt grimaced with a harsh sigh; no Asorath…no Guenwhyvar.

"They are giving away our godsdamned position," Entreri whispered in Drizzt's ear. "Moril sees them he'll send the whole fleet in any direction."

"Not in the caves," Drizzt whispered back. "One of those things goes half the cave goes with it. Moril's crazy, but he's not going to give up anything; his ground or his life."

Entreri pushed forward, though slowed his pace and kept a close watch on anything the other three did. These three could not be trusted for anything and were located in the middle of an army of disaster. One stone drop by any of these idiots could result in all of them dying.

Fielder hopped up to a small crevice overlooking the rest of the cave as Linuin kept his ground on a side ledge and Regis started scrambling away from both of them on the wall. Fielder looked over, meeting the gazes of every party member on the opposite side of the cave and smiling with a wave.

Wenthias gave a harsh hand motion urging them to get on his side. Drizzt and Entreri could see him gritting his teeth and mouthing "get over here."

Fielder's smile only widened. He reached into his belt and produced a bloodstained leather pouch, opening it and probing the contents inside with a finger.

"Finish your play and get over here," Wenthias said in a low, barely audible grunt, his face getting redder as his scowl deepened.

Fielder opened the bag wider and looked into it with an approving nod. Drizzt and Entreri could see Linuin readying spell gestures and Regis pulling an onyx figurine from his pouch.

They had something in mind and it was likely going to be a sudden mass of chaos.

_You've got your job to do, big man, _Fielder signed in drow hand code. _I'm just doing mine._

Drizzt and Enterri looked at each other before looking at Wenthias, who was looking more perturbed by the moment. Whatever Fielder's course was, it was clear he was doing his own business and trailing the blackguard ended here.

Entreri nodded, having received his answer and walking further across the ledge to another crack in the wall, though keeping half an eye on Fielder.

Drizzt carefully followed him, seeing Wenthias gritting his teeth and throwing a very vulgar hand gesture toward Fielder. More was going on here than either betrayal or insubordination and Drizzt saw that clearly.

Fielder served a god who allied himself with both Bane and Lolth. Now those two powerful deities were on opposite sides and all expecting Malar to be on their side. After his conversation with Wenthias, it was clear to Drizzt Bane had grabbed Malar by the scruff of the neck and ordered him to help find Moril, though Lolth would likely eat him is he had that role…or else Lolth gave him a better offer.

Regardless, Malar's champion was playing the middle ground; helping Bane's champion to a certain degree while not lifting a direct finger against Moril, or at least waiting for his moment to aid Moril.

Fielder reached inside the bag and tossed down what appeared to be a handful of pieces of thick, finely tumbled granite; watching them fall down at the clowns. Entreri's step down the corridor hastened, knowing they had been betrayed.

Some rocks bounced off clown heads while most simply fell on the ground. In a second, the rocks rapidly grew to twice their size before cracking and releasing a red mist. The mist cleared, revealing a mass of steel gray wolves; red eyes and massive teeth aimed at the clowns. Maws lunged for throats and claws tore off heads as the clowns made no other actions but accept the fur covered death raining down on them.

A wave of mist suddenly formed and 600 pounds of black fur and claws descended on one clown, Guenwhyvar's massive claws raking through the throat of one undead creature before turning her attention to another.

A mass of swirling blades sawed through one clown's head before Linuin turned his spell to another.

Entreri looked at the scene with a small smile, nodding to Drizzt and Mazn'reysla before sprinting for the other side of the corridor. Wenthias merely kicked the stone and sped in their direction.

The small ledge turned into what clearly looked like a cut doorway; a physical indication they were getting closer and closer to House Mourbasin. It was the only factor that kept Entreri grounded and in control of his emotions, though an invisible rope pulled him along and his stomach turned at the sight of the walls.

It was like he had been here before; not just in Moril's vision and not from his own experiences in the Underdark. It was as if he was walking through his old home; loosening his robes after returning from a trip to Sshamath and throwing waves at the soldiers training below before returning to Hallia and…

Entreri shuddered and kept running, blocking out all emotion though letting his instinct guide him down another dark, twisted corridor. Drizzt caught up to his side and both glanced back to see Wenthias following close behind with mace in hand, his sour expression smoothing back to calm smugness. There was no sign of Regis…and no sign of Mazn'reysla.

Drizzt made the realization for one second and slid around and looked further down the corridor looking for him. Entreri noticed him and grabbed his arm, pulling him back.

"This is his old home, not ours," the assassin said to Drizzt in an annoyed whisper. "No more foolishness."

Drizzt sighed and nodded his head; Mazn'reysla indeed knew this place as he had spent much time here. Likely he was scouting out other corridors, or better yet meeting with the surviving members of House Mourbasin who should arrive at the proper time.

Regardless the cleric's sudden disappearance unnerved him. Too much was happening in one small place for any of them to be separated.

Drizzt proceeded on, following Entreri and looking at the naturally formed caverns that bore the chisel and hammer marks of drow crafting…much like Menzoberranzan, another factor that put him completely on edge and made him feel sick.

His painful recollections lasted as long as the silence in the corridor as a mass of hollow clanks and a flash of forms throughout the cavern put his mind back on instinct and ready to spring at anything that came in his path.

Drizzt was not the only one noticing the sudden movement and blurs of darkness. Each member of the remaining party had scattered around the corridor, weapons in hand and watching out for anything that might attack.

A blur of motion explode through the formation and Wenthias grunted as deep scratches suddenly formed on his face. Another blur aimed at Entreri, though he stepped aside in a split second only to have his trousers grazed but no skin. A long pause settled in as the three set their eyes on the corridor, awaiting any thing that may have been hiding and awaiting another attack.

Another blur of darkness appeared, but suddenly exploded in a flash of dim light that illuminated the corridor. Regis now stood in back of the group, mace dripping with black blood and glowing brightly as another of Moril's pets lay in the middle of the cavern twitching.

The head and torso looked like it had once belonged to a duerger; bald head and white beard still in tact though the rest of its face bore the same diamond marks on the eyes and mouth twisted into an unnatural grimace as was Moril's calling card.

Those were the last of the thing's humanoid features. It propped itself on eight skeletal arms like a spider, trying to remain its footing as it hissed at the group with a mouth full of rows of sharp teeth. It was soon in pieces on the floor after a series of rapid chops from WraithKiss and Shadowflash, though more rapid movements around the now-lighted corridor brought the four of them springing to action.

Clouds of darkness formed over the four creatures now skittering toward the party, but the light pervading the corridor dissipated the darkness.

A creature launched at Drizzt, who swiped his blade at it, missing it as it moved from his reach in mid air until WraithKiss shattered through its skull. One creature was sent reeling at the end of Wenthias' heavy mace, though shrugged off the initial blow against what used to be its shoulder; skittering back and launching forward, getting clipped again and shattering under the mace just as it was about to leap up.

Entreri swung around in all directions, his blades wildly swiping at two creatures though all of his attacks were methodically placed. He clipped one creature with Charon's Claw, the jeweled dagger snapping a leg off the other as he kicked upward and launched the first creature in mid air. He then spun around and took the head off the second before forming a wall of ash around its companion. The first creature plowed through the wall of ash, though lost two of its legs before being halved in a rapid series of swipes from both sword and dagger.

One creature lunged for Drizzt, who did a spinning dodge away with every intention of cutting at it. He aimed WraithKiss in its general direction, able to summon shadows despite the supposedly holy light in the room, though the creatures plowed through it. A glowing mace suddenly swiped down on top of the creature's head.

The undead duerger shrugged off the blow and found itself midair, though Regis kicked at one stone, jumped high in the air, and delivered a series of rapid blows to the thing's head and "shoulders." The creature bounced off the side of the cavern, though Regis lunged at the other side, kicking himself off the rocks again and doing a split jump over the thing while delivering a hard blow to the back of its neck that shattered its skull and left it crashing to the ground.

Drizzt and Entreri exchanged incredulous glances for a moment before snapping their blades at three more creatures that leapt up and bounced off the rocks in their direction.

Two sets of whirring blades met the lunging creatures, Charon's Claw and WraithKiss hitting one and leaving it's head on the ground as a dagger, spinning for a moment to reverse the grip, sliced at another. The dagger clipped it before charging in through its skull. A heavy mace broke its back apart with Wenthias giving a sly smile and nod before going after another creature a few feet away.

Drizzt and Entreri exchanged annoyed glances before Drizzt's swing kick disturbed the third creature's momentum and made it flail before a crosscut of WraithKiss and Shadowflash halved its body and sent it to the ground.

Drizzt looked back at Regis while swinging blades at another creature leaping at him.

"Guenwhyvar," Drizzt asked.

Regis took another swipe at a creature bouncing at him from the cave wall.

"Still with the clowns," he replied with a heaving breath from tiredness and the sudden wave of dread about Drizzt's question.

Drizzt sighed hard, not liking the sound of Guenwhyvar being far away from either of them, especially in the presence of Fielder and Linuin, not to mention Fielder's newly summoned pets. He put the thought out of his mind and simply shook his head. If anything happened to Guenwhyvar, she would return to her plane and the figurine was still in Regis' pouch. Drizzt returned his attention to the fight, bringing a sigh of relief from Regis, who smashed his last creature in the skull, causing a mess of brains and black blood.

For a second all was quiet. Entreri immediately sprang forward, regaining his bearings and running down the hallway; blades still out and eyes scanning the corridor expecting anything to come out at him at any moment. Drizzt caught up with him in less than a moment, looking back to see Wenthias and, surprisingly, Regis close on their tails.

Drizzt's frustration level was at the highest it could be before resulting in more bloodshed than called for. It was another pause, another moment when Moril had his fill of one creature to throw at them and readied another. It was like they were all running through some carnival house where surprises awaited at every turn or a gallery where Moril could show off his prized creations.

It was the Clown Cultist's perfect play house and he likely fed the location to Entreri to lure some new play toys who were doing this in the name of a less comical cause.

The gods who sent them could have been playing their own game, Drizzt thought, or at least Vhaeraun was and likely for a somewhat decent cause; Vhaeraun's champion against Lolth's pawn and both gods were moving their own pieces.

Drizzt's lips managed to quirk into a small smile, imagining the Masked Lord and the Spider Bitch sitting at a huge sava board; that was exactly what this was all about.

A mass of darkness spread down the corridor, breaking Drizzt's train of thought and making his mind latch on to all of his senses. Drizzt originally thought it an impenetrable orb of darkness like one of drow make, though the darkness suddenly materialized into flying formations like bats or shade demons.

One bat whipped past Drizzt with a shriek and aimed for Wenthas, who swung at it with his heavy mace; causing it to bounce off his weapon and dissipate. Another flew for Regis, who jumped on the rocks again and hit it with his mace mid-leap before landing on his feet in a crouch as it dissipated above him. Another group of forms went for Wenthias and Regis as one dissipated with a louder shriek at the end of Charon's Claw.

All members of the party only paused for barely a second before all were running while swatting at or trying to avoid the mass of flying forms with wings and yellow eyes that flew at them.

None were aiming for Drizzt, though Drizzt kept his blades up in anticipation of any of them. Soon the darkness bats rained through the corridor like a fog; some appearing where only one was before and others dissipating before even hitting a blade.

Their collective shrieks sounded like a mass of shrill cackles as all remaining members of the party raised blades and hit at them while collectively trying to continue forward.

Drizzt raised Shadowflash and struck one of the things; feeling no shadows from these and only a creatively used darkness. He ducked another one that dissipated at the end of Wenthias' mace before WraithKiss was in the air aimed at one creature that actually dove for Drizzt.

The blade cut through darkness before clanging against another blade in a scream of metal. Drizzt sneered, looking forward to see a mass of darkness in front of him that took a humanoid shape. Another blade sprang from the darkness and was parried by Shadowflash before the second blade made a hard swipe at WraithKiss. Drizzt went to parry but recognized the feint just as second blade swiped at his midsection.

Drizzt sliced Shadowflash forward and cut through the darkness surrounding what was fighting him. He managed to put WraithKiss in the way of another aggressive lunge as his stomach dropped and body went numb; eyes keeping the twin longswords in focus but his gaze locked on those familiar features behind a mass of white paint and framed by a mane of long, wild white hair.

Shadowflash lunged forward in a feint and WraithKiss slammed into one longsword as Drizzt gave a loud grunt in anger, frustration, horror, any emotion surging through him. Shadowflash sliced out, its handler wanting to see blood; Moril's blood spilling by the gallon for doing this to his brother, his mentor, one of the truest friends he had ever known.

Jarlaxle Baenre was just a mass of whirring blades and a painted clown face. His face wore a hard sneer where a wide smile should have been; pointed chin and arched eyebrows occasionally covered by a lock of hair that should have been shaved off like of had for centuries. Beside the smear of white make-up, Drizzt could see tight gray skin where smooth ebony should have been; eyes of sparkling red now poisoned yellow pushing past the iris and staining the rest of his eyes. There was no spark, no exuberance, nothing more than a mass of flesh hacking at him. He did no want to even make the obvious comparison.

Both swords gave a crosscut that Drizzt managed to parry with WraithKiss before one sword was lunging at his neck. Shadowflash slapped at the blade but did not push is aside entirely; the force Jarlaxle put behind every cut was enormous.

WraithKiss swung out wildly in a feint that was parried with a force that made Drizzt's arm hurt. He quickly disengaged the blade and swung Shadowflash out, not even letting it touch the second longsword before both of Drizzt's swords made a crosscut at Jarlaxle. Jarlaxle did a backward leap that almost looked like he flew.

Both swords back in front of Drizzt, who did a crossdown parry and tried to kick up. He brought his leg back down a moment before both blades came in the direction of his boot, clipping the heel before whipping at Drizzt's face.

WraithKiss immediately met both blades; another ache surging through his arm and causing his disengage to be slightly slower than he would have liked.

His arms were moving with every attack from those swords, though the rest of Drizzt's mind had yet to even register the circumstances. A tiny part of him screamed to find another way to get through, find any amount of consciousness that Jarlaxle Baenre had left to have him stop this.

A heavy mace suddenly came into his vision and whipped against Jarlaxle's scalp. Jarlaxle made another aggressive slice at Drizzt before one blade parried another blow from the mace.

Entreri shoved Drizzt aside as Charon's Claw made a lunge that was parried by one of the longswords. The second sword crashed against Shadowflash, sending an ache through Drizzt's wrist that made him wince. Another longsword was about to lunge for Drizzt until Wenthias' mace slapped the blade out of the way before making a more aggressive swing for Jarlaxle's head.

Drizzt pulled aside from the fight, sheathing Shadowflash and drawing Icingdeath just in time for it to parry a slice from Jarlaxle.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Regis gazing up at Jarlaxle in pure horror; the little bit of fight left in him visibly sucked out of him. He clutched his mace and made ready to take any swing, though he hid behind an outcropping of rocks; remaining unnoticed through twitching for battle if the battle came.

Charon's Claw slammed against the blade just as Drizzt raised WraithKiss. Drizzt disengaged his own blade and let the jeweled dagger do a series of spinning slaps against the blade to throw it momentarily off course before Charon's Claw clanged against the first blade.

Entreri hacked his sword at the thing Jarlaxle had been turned into. He wanted to see it die, see the body on the ground and let Jarlaxle Baenre have eternal peace at last whatever form it took. He knew Jarlaxle's capabilities in this form, the lingering tightness in his right wrist told him that much though it was more a challenge than a threat.It was a challenge from a part of Entreri's brain that refused to be pushed back; beaten once, forever seeking revenge until his final win.

He looked into those yellow eyes again, seeing no life and no hint of his old companion. There was no emotion, no recognition; only ingrained malice from the monster controlling him.

This puppet had to go down; the fact it was made from Jarlaxle's flesh propelled Entreri's blade's harder. He took a deep breath, making another parry before trying to make a tap to the astral, but a loud, dissonant noise sounded through his head, causing him to lose all connection and try to reorient his aching head back to the fight.

Entreri paused for not even a second before Wenthias shoved him out of the way and swung his mace at the whipping longswords.

Drizzt drank in the entire scene, seeing both hardened warriors barely even getting their weapons within an inch of Jarlaxle. All three of them had fought him off and all three of them had been pushed back to whatever degree. He did not know how he could manage Jarlaxle for too long alone, though testing the stamina of all three of them was a risk in his mind. He had no doubt's of anyone's prowess, though while all three took on Jarlaxle, Moril was still in the open…and that was how the bastard wanted it, especially since only one of them knew how to get to him.

Drizzt stepped aside for a moment, his mind quieting and his focus solely on Jarlaxle. His grip tightened on his scimitars and his muscles tensed as he mentally rehearsed every thrust and parry he would need. He stared at his tainted friend, seeing the faint glow of black magic around his form.

Time seemed to stand still for Drizzt as his mind reached into the shadows.

_He's a legendary warrior with a bit of extra muscle from the parasite controlling him, _Drizzt thought, hoping for a familiar reply.

_He's a puppet, _came the matter-of-fact reply dripping with a mix of boredom and intrigue. _Do you have a further purpose to this observation?_

Drizzt merely smiled, quickstepping ahead and parrying a blow meant for Charon's Claw while pulling Entreri away from the melee. Jarlaxle lunged at Drizzt, who gave a few feints with WraithKiss before pulling back for a moment enough for Wenthias to squeeze into his place and swing with his mace.

Entreri gave Drizzt an incredulous look before a sickeningly familiar voice floated through his brain.

_Drizzt, you're aiming for Drizzt, boy_, Moril's astral voice carried over through some means Entreri did not want to think on now. _Fine then, if you must take Wenthias out do so quickly for Vhaeraun's whore is supposed to be your first target!_

"The three of you need to get the Hells out of here," Drizzt said in a disturbingly calm tone. "This is my fight, and the glory of spilling Moril's blood is yet ahead."

Drizzt and Entreri clearly saw the smirk that appeared on Wenthias' face as he lunged further at Jarlaxle, his mace slapped back by a series of rapid feints.

Regis looked up at Drizzt, seeing the somber look on his face. Chills ran down his spine for a moment; his old friend was willing to take this fight, sacrifice himself if needed to bring Moril down. The feeling lasted a moment as the chill of emotion was replaced by the chill of dread. Drizzt's face was dead calm as the shuriken's in Regis' pouch pulsed in warning.

The sight of shadows amassing around Drizzt made him ill. This was not self-sacrifice; this was something else entirely.

Entreri felt it too, though he was more spurred on. He was about to protest, but his newly discovered instincts told him there were much higher forces at work here.

"I hope you know what the Hells you're doing," Entreri muttered, watching Wenthias' swings become harder and harder as Jarlaxle's pace quickened.

Wenthias did give a few looks in their direction as Regis stared at them from behind his rock.

Drizzt suddenly grabbed Entreri by the shoulders and pushed him against the rock wall. The assassin readied his dagger, though allowed the motion as long as it was going in a constructive direction.

Regis saw Drizzt grab the sides of Entreri's face and block the sight of his mouth planting around the assassin's lips, the same view Wenthias saw and rolled his eyes at while slapping aside a longsword and meeting the other as the first swung after him.

Entreri was the only one with the view of Drizzt kissing his own thumb as it rested across his chin in a clear visual trick that likely had another purpose. Drizzt's other hand caressed Entreri's hair as his mouth came to his ear with what would be a passioned whisper to everyone else though meant so much more for the assassin.

"He's Nzifrel Baenre," Drizzt whispered, his lips hidden from one angle by Entreri's ear and another by Drizzt's hand and the side of the human's face.

A look of understanding mixed with feral enthusiasm flashed in Entreri's eyes, telling Drizzt he understood the exact purpose of what he was told. Simply whispering Moril's true name, a piece of highly volatile information, would have drawn the attention of both Wenthias and Regis and possibly Moril. Wenthias understood hand code and relaying it through the astral plane would have unleashed the Hells on all of them.

"Always remember that," Drizzt said, pulling back.

"We shall be together again," Entreri said, taking hold of Drizzt's hand and kissing it with a knowing smile before running past him.

Regis started at the assassin, knowing full well something had passed between them that was far from romantic. A plan was afoot and he did not like where this was going at all.

Drizzt ran forward, a flurry of blades crashing against the longswords as he kicked Wenthias to the side. Wenthias stood aside glaring at Drizzt incredulously, though his gaze softened as he saw the drow launching into a rapid series of feints, drawing the blades in his direction before slapping them aside.

_Now you're seeing it my way, that's a good boy, _Entreri heard Moril laugh.

The assassin grabbed Wenthias by the arm. The blackguard was about to pull back before seeing a longsword swinging in his direction. Wenthias managed a low lunge as scimitar cut across and parried the blade with a screech of metal.

Entreri spun around the fighting pair, taking one last look at his two traveling companions locking blades. A smile appeared on his face as he ran ahead, seeing Wenthias and Regis following close behind as they all passed Drizzt and Jarlaxle.

Maybe the question of who could beat who in a fight would be finally answered.


	27. Friendly Foes

**The Lesser Evil: Hooligan's Holiday**

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of R.A. Salvatore/Wizards of the Coast ©. I don't own them; I'm just examining all their possibilities.

Author's Note: This chapter was meant to be the grand finale of the story, though when all was said and done it ended up being around 36 pages in Word and around 10,000 words. I decided it was best to break up the scene into two chapters. The grand finale will occur in the next chapter.

**Chapter 27: Friendly Foes**

The hollow footfalls of three figures running down the corridor managed to sneak past a few of the screams and clangs of metal echoing off the stones. Both sets of eyes briefly turned to the three as they disappeared into the darkness, though not before hanging back for a lingering moment to watch the next sword thrust or scimitar slice.

The direction of Jarlaxle's gaze for that one moment was not lost on Drizzt, who grunted while shoving both of Jarlaxle's longswords out of the way. Jarlaxle swiped one sword toward him, leading him to dodge back for a moment. Drizzt saw an opening he reached for that was filled a moment later as two longswords did a cross cut an inch from him that he met with the force of two scimitars in a parry that sent a wave of force through his arm.

Drizzt disengaged and whipped his blades forward, taking a series of deep breaths to focus on channeling his energy as opposed to spending it in rage. He analyzed every clang of swords, every swing of steel, every tightening sinew in Jarlaxle's bare hands and the muscles of his neck.

Drizzt responded to each thrust and each parry as if they were automatic actions, letting his mind disconnect itself from the violence in front of him. It was an entirely different approach than the usual ache in his temples and the burning fever that ran through his body every time he fought with anywhere near this level of intensity.

This fight, however, took the force and speed to its own level; Jarlaxle smashed his swords into Drizzt's scimitars and every movement was near a blur. His face remained calm, though not frozen; a few sneers and grunts did slip past the stony exterior, showing Drizzt he was not as of yet a complete zombie.

His face wasn't the spirit wraith of Zaknafein; a scarred, dead mask. Drizzt had to remind himself of that over and over though the similarities between the two were still very much there and made Drizzt's stomach ache…and appealed to his morbid humor all at the same time.

Before he even realized what he was doing, a stream of cackles poured from his mouth as he dodged another blade that sliced at his throat. He made a cross cut parry of both Jarlaxle's blades and felt himself thrown back a step. The clash of blades sent another shockwave through his arms, though he disengaged just in time to absorb the blow.

It was almost like the blow he took nearly two years ago that shattered his wrist and his old scimitar…a blow from a god. The unsettling thought only conjured more maniacal laughter.

Jarlaxle did a rapid feint with one blade before slicing out with the other in such a way that the slice of air echoed through the cavern. It was like Jarlaxle created his own wind, another thought that made Drizzt laugh louder.

"You find something amusing," Jarlaxle said, his voice an eerie mix of his own lively tone and Moril's croaking timbre.

Drizzt raised his eyebrows giving his own rapid feints that Jarlaxle met perfectly as he took over the offense. Moril was paying attention to this whole scene through Jarlaxle's eyes, though somehow Drizzt heard more of Jarlaxle in that voice. After all, he wasn't entirely dead.

"Yeah," Drizzt said, launching into a crosscut and disengaging fast in a feint before slicing out with Icingdeath, "you remind me of an old friend of yours right now. You know, proud but cowardly warrior turned meat puppet. I think you two smelled the same too."

Drizzt dodged a spinning slice of both swords that looked like a whirl of blades before engaging one blade with both his scimitars in a feint and rapidly disengaging to meet the rapid slices of the swords again. He took another good look at Jarlaxle and more peals of laughter escaped him.

"Oh for the love of all things unholy," Drizzt yelled in time with parrying each of Jarlaxle's blades in a successive row, "The next time some ass-head decides to come after me they should have a more original fucking tactic!" Drizzt stepped back to avoid one swinging blade. "Take a companion of his, turn him into a…thing and sick it after him. What the fuck! Your master is indeed a completely unoriginal fucking moron!"

"Perhaps I thought you would have some sentimental attachment to this pile of shit like you did for the yoked pig that spilled itself into a pile of spider webs to make you," Jarlaxle replied, doing another spinning slice. Drizzt spun out of the way, letting himself briefly bounce off the cavern wall and place himself a few feet away further down the corridor to have Jarlaxle in his face again with blades slamming down to his. "Oh no, must not speak of poor, martyred Zaknafein. Might make the little calf pout."

"Oh gods, you're pathetic," Drizzt yelled, rolling his eyes and launching a series of feints that sent Jarlaxle back on his heels for a second before Drizzt found himself backing up down the corridor again, meeting every slice and parry.

Jarlaxle gave his own shrill cackle that echoed down the corridor and made the hairs on the back of Drizzt's neck stand on end.

"I never told you about your father, did I," Jarlaxle said, his own tone coming through stronger, though Moril's voice still surrounded it like a festering cocoon. "I never had the chance to tell you about how much of a moping drunkard he became before he finally handed himself to Malice for slaughter." He followed with a series of rapid feints that put Drizzt back on his heels, though his opponent met every one of them and managed to shove back a bit with a flurry of his own blows. "Oh, that's right; you always thought he sacrificed himself to save your sorry ass. Highly unlikely, he spoke of killing you more times than I can remember. Sorry to tell you, scum stain, but he gave himself over to finally put an end to his pathetic life."

Drizzt chuckled, not knowing if that was Jarlaxle speaking or Moril, or maybe Moril prompting Jarlaxle to reveal some information he did have on Zaknafein. Regardless, the words hardly bothered him. It wasn't as if he had not considered all those possibilities at some point, especially at a time over the past two years where he was more awake to the truth and not his own pretty take on it.

Drizzt took a deep breath and rushed forward with his own spinning whir of blades. Jarlaxle met all of them, delivering a few extra thrusts and slices in response that startled Drizzt, though he knew he had the higher ground and Jarlaxle was overcompensating…or at least Moril was.

He managed to put Jarlaxle a few steps back down the hall, though each of his slices quickened with the occasional blur of motion. Drizzt concentrated on his movements, focused his energy, and met every slice, adding a few blurring feints of his own.

"You're right, he was a little whore to a creature that finally lost her use of him," Drizzt said with a laugh, slicing out with Icingdeath before slicing with WraithKiss in a rapid feint that slammed both blades into Jarlaxle's awaiting swords. "That reminds me of someone else I know. Oh yes, that would be you. Tell me, Jarlaxle Baenre, how does it feel to get bent over to this pile of rotting skin like a little bitch when you should be wringing his withered fucking neck?"

Jarlaxle in Moril's voice responded with a shrill cackle, though Drizzt could see his yellow eyes flash red for a moment before turning back.

A series of blurring slices burst in front of Drizzt, who sprang forward to meet the rush. He locked blades with Jarlaxle before making to kick him in the stomach. The sole of his boot connected briefly with his breastplate but suddenly swung back as a sword swung in its direction.

Drizzt landed on that leg, glad to find it was still attached as he sliced his blades in a rapid motion. Jarlaxle was put back a moment, but the blur of blades was on him again as his swords kept pace.

Jarlaxle's pace quickened. His beginning momentum was aggressive, but now he was a blur and his feints and parries were moving faster.

Drizzt suddenly became aware of the growing ache in his arms, which he shrugged off. A lingering itch in his leg, however, was not letting itself be as ignored. Drizzt slammed WraithKiss into one sword as Icingdeath sliced forward and both scimitars met each other for a cross thrust against the two crossed swords that Jarlaxle spun out to disengage.

Drizzt allowed himself a peek at the leg that was not completely unscathed as he thought. Predictably, he saw the slice against his trousers, though he could not see any cuts through the gushing mass of blood running from the hole in his trousers and down his leg.

He growled and charged forward again, shaking off the feeling of dread that crept over him and the memory of how much blood covered the ground after one of those blades took off Entreri's hand. The blades had a wounding enchantment on them and, judging by the pool of blood now forming on the cavern floor, Moril had made the enchantment rather strong.

Jarlaxle smirked and launched a series of feints and parries that slammed into both Drizzt's blades and put him back a few more feet down the corridor closer to what looked like a side chamber. Drizzt worked to keep up, but his growing dizziness was demanding its own attention.

Panic was hardly a word in his mind. He let his arms and legs move as a subconscious thought, ignoring the increased burn in his arms and the overall weakness from his growing blood loss. He merely let his mind connect with the shadows.

-----------

The sound of a rock bouncing off the cavern floor and a momentary low gasp from a certain halfling had Entreri spinning on his heels and facing forward, sword and dagger aiming at the direction of the sound.

He only saw a halfling looking at him, color steadily draining from his face though he stood firm for the first time Entreri had even seen.

"I kicked a rock," Regis said in a high whisper. "It startled me."

Entreri kept his weapons aimed at the halfling, making ready to at least poke him with his dagger long enough for him to feel its effects for a gleeful moment. The thought made him smile.

"This is the loudest sound we've heard in nearly an hour of walking through godsforsaken caverns," Wenthias replied in a soft tone, walking right to Regis' side and putting a hand on his shoulder. Regis' slight wince quirked a corner of the assassin's mouth into a fleeting smirk. "It's clear Master Regis is not the only one on edge here and with reason."

Entreri lowered his blades and gave a sigh in response, now imagining himself peeling the smug smile of the Banite's face with a fruit spoon; though he did have a point.

Entreri left Drizzt and Jarlaxle while running, occasionally looking back to see the mess in progress before reigning in his nauseated curiosity and sprinting toward Moril. His sprint slowed to a swift walk, and then a leisurely stroll after walking what he knew to be half an hour in the slight glow of the stones.

No monsters leapt at them, no creature was even here in this tunnel. Regis' kicked rock was indeed the loudest sound any of them heard in the past half hour or so.

Entreri was hardly reassured by the quiet; it further agitated his already frayed nerves. He had traveled in caves and less populated parts of the Underdark before, enough to know there should have been some scratching of rats, some slithering of snakes or moss creatures, some remote clangs of deep gnomes or duerger working in a far off cavern, something. Not even dripping water from the stones made any noise now.

This was, after all, the private home of nearly two hundred drow who lived and conducted their illicit deeds in complete secrecy. Now it was a tomb; a hole of death cleansed by Moril's taint and made into a barren land where monsters lurked everywhere, or at least they did under Moril's command.

Moril himself had been silent over the past hour; no further prodding of Jarlaxle and no cries of victory or defeat. The thought that maybe Moril had sealed his thoughts was active in Entreri's mind and made him step forward with a bit more caution. Traps could have been any where in any form and of any magnitude; likely Moril's last surprise for the morons who fell into his trap.

Entreri gave a stiff nod with a forced smile, making an attempt at coddling the blackguard's likely fake gentlemanly tendencies.

"It has been a hard journey for all of us," he said, looking first at Wenthias' smirk and down at Regis, smile still in place but eyes narrowing in a menacing glare for a moment enough to bring a few more sweat drops on the halfling's forehead.

He spun around and continued walking to the side of the cavern, keeping his senses on constant alert in case any of them decided to try anything, or in case Wenthias' psionic son was lying in wait under cover. A small chuckle from the Banite only tightened his nerves.

"Yes, near an hour of walking through dank caverns toward an enemy that seems to be everywhere, and yet somehow is located at the end of this hellish maze," Wenthias said. "Though I feel quite assured by the fact you and your companions know these caverns like the backs of your hands."

Entreri hardly took that as a compliment; quite the opposite. All along, he has been able to read Wenthias' slimy insincerity like a children's book. The extra strain in his voice and the shuffling of feet closer to him told Entreri something more was going on here than Wenthias flapping his jaw. The question now was whether to call his bluff now and get ready for a fight or wait a while longer when he could use the smug bastard as a shield against Moril.

"It is knowledge that will get you your prize," Entreri said, looking back at Wenthias with a calm, don't-try-me glare.

"Oh I have no doubt of that in the least," Wenthias said, his tone lighter as he managed another one of those nauseating chuckles that said more to Entreri than any of his pithy words could.

"Of course," Entreri said. "We must hang together and all that."

The smile on Wenthias face made Entreri grip his weapons a bit tighter. He hadn't said a word, but Entreri knew what his plan was and it likely involved using the shields in his immediate vicinity the second he reached Moril.

His eyes swept the cavern, looking for any hint of a hidden presence. He was tempted to call on his newly found sight, though it would have been a risky move with Moril's eyes and ears everywhere.

A sickening laughter filled his mind a moment later. Entreri cleared his thoughts lest the clown bastard read something he found amusing. His laugh, however, was not so much sly as it was victorious; a thought that made Entreri ill.

The words that followed put Entreri into a faster walk;

_Wonderful! Simply wonderful, my boy! Now finish him!_

-------------

The wave of shadows sweeping across his vision was a far more powerful reaction than Drizzt thought he would receive, or maybe it was a trick of the blood loss. He still felt his arms absorbing every parry and swinging out to block another thrust, though his mind was hardly in the fight. The fact he was fighting this intensely on instinct and unconscious though almost scared him.

In a moment, his energy level slightly increased with the wave of cool shadows pouring through him, allowing him more gusto and at least more conscious thought for a moment. His nerves suddenly shot upwards as he gained a burst of speed that drained a little of his reserves.

He looked at Jarlaxle, who pressed on with a small grin on his face. For some reason it appeared his smile was trying to widen though he was forcing it back into a smirk.

"What's the point of this nonsense," Jarlaxle said, Moril's voice stronger in his tone. "You know you are dying anyway, I can see it through that warrior-hero mask of yours. In just a few minutes, you will bleed to death even if you score any scratches on me. Why not martyr yourself now painlessly before giving me the opportunity to do it in a less peaceful manner."

Drizzt rolled his eyes and gave a series of feints, his momentary burst of energy still active as his mind further connected with a force whose help he desperately needed.

"It's your choice, child," Jarlaxle continued, kicking out and tapping Drizzt on the hip with enough force to send him backwards a few steps into the side chamber, though Drizzt regained enough of his footing to not be thrown to the floor. "I'll just make it one clean slice across the neck and you get to serve as Vhaeraun's left hand warrior for eternity. It is so much of a better option than having me cut out your internal organs piece by piece and feed them to you."

Drizzt spun around Jarlaxle, avoiding being pressed against the wall and instead having the rest of the chamber and the corridor to work with. Jarlaxle leapt in the air in a pirouette of blades before doing a forward flip and kicking Drizzt against the wall. Drizzt responded with his own kick that spun him away from the mass of stone.

A tingle ran through Drizzt's body as a flash of black light appeared around him as everything pulsed with energy. He looked at Jarlaxle and felt an overwhelming energy of dread pulsing from his body and through the very stones. It was almost exhausting being in his immediate vicinity.

His stomach lurched and a chill pierced through his body with a sudden realization; he had felt this type of energy before. It was a memory from nearly two years back sometimes forgotten and sometimes pulsed through his being; the sensation of pure, godly energy. It was the sensation of Vhaeraun's godly energy when he first encountered his avatar in the woods by Mazn'reysla's summoning.

Now that energy pulsed from Jarlaxle's form; the energy Moril poured through him as Lolth poured it through her own deformed champion. Drizzt paid closer attention to Jarlaxle's whir of blades and did not want to see the outlines of spider webs through that black aura, though they sliced into his vision.

Drizzt took a few deep breaths and pressed on with a double thrust feint and a series of slices as he faced the vision head on, suddenly realizing the source of the light was only from one spot near his midsection. Drizzt gave a flurry of feints as he spun around Jarlaxle and back around the chamber while looking for the source of the energy that he could only guess.

His strength waned little by little, though he finally located a strand of black light around the middle of Jarlaxle's body; a strand of energy pulsating from around his liver. Entreri was right; Moril was feeding off his slow death and using it to control him as a puppet.

Interrupting the energy flow some how would be his surest option of yanking Jarlaxle from Moril's grasp. Healing him, curing his illness with any spell would cut off Moril's conduit; though Drizzt was hardly a healer and did not have any potions or anything capable of the magnitude of spell needed.

Then again, killing him outright would be another way of doing, though it would give Moril a brief burst of energy, possibly enough to cause some major harm.

_So we react with analysis and not fear, _a familiar voice said through his mind.

Drizzt hid his smile and whipped Icingdeath toward Jarlaxle's neck, disengaging while thrusting WraithKiss forward with sheer glee.

_It's called getting shit done, _Drizzt thought back while parrying a hard slice from one of Jarlaxle's blades.

_Happy to hear that, _Vhaeraun replied. _Especially since you just were given a taste of my godly vision enough to see, as it stands now, you are a tad bit fucked._

_Would you care to help me get un-fucked, _Drizzt responded.

The oily chuckle he heard was hardly reassuring.

_Now, now, I personally think I have given enough energy to you as of late, _Vhaeraun replied. _As much as I enjoy being sucked off in other respects, this is one manner I am rather tired of, at least thanks to clown boy._

Drizzt slammed his blades into Jarlaxle's swords with a frustrated grunt. The reality that his lightheadedness was gone and the slick coating the back of his leg was now an itchy dried mass was one bright point to this.

_I will assist you in a manner that is so much more advantageous for the both of us, _Vhaeraun continued. _As you see, you are fighting a half-living flesh golem powered by necromancy and energy from a certain relative of mine. His movements, however, were trained into his subconscious by the finest Melee-Magthere slave drivers and a few more hundred years of perfection. You on the other hand have much of the latter but lack the former…at the moment._

Drizzt smirked with the realization that scared him yet intrigued him at the same time.

_So you finally want a chance to enter me, _Drizzt thought.

_I'll try to be gentle, _Vhaeraun replied with a snicker. _It is your first time after all._

Drizzt couldn't keep the smile off his face as he parried another whipping sword and spun out of the way of the second.

A cold mass shot through his body, every nerve bathed in aching chill. He felt his arms make another parry, though his head swam and darkness wafted before his eyes for a moment before fading back to his previous vision.

The cold force poured through his chest and crept into his legs, and then his arms as if he had been slipped on like a leotard.

Jarlaxle suddenly stepped back, swords in hands as he gazed at Drizzt in menace with a hint of confused curiosity.

Drizzt stood still for a moment, letting his aching head rest on his chest for a moment. He felt sick, though all nausea, all chill, all shocked weakness faded into pure confident strength. He felt a chuckle escape his throat, part his own part influenced by someone else. He was still conscious, though felt the power of the universe pulsing through him.

He slowly lifted his head up, lips in a cruel smile. The only chill he now felt wrapped around his eyes and crawled to the upper part of his face; Drizzt could only see the shadowy mask over his face from his peripheral vision, but it made him stare at Jarlaxle with the infinite knowledge he would be the one to end this.

_I would like my sword, please,_ Vhaeraun said, his lips practically against Drizzt's ear, or so it sounded.

Drizzt casually sheathed Icingdeath and whipped Shadowflash from the sheath on his back, charging forward with a smile.

"This is going to be fun," Jarlaxle said, blades whipping out in a blur.

-----------

Entreri registered the sounds of two sets of feet sprinting after him, though the only thing on his mind was finally getting to Moril and cutting his heart out…for Drizzt's sake, for Jarlaxle's sake, for Velz's sake, for the sake of everyone who had been torn to pieces by Moril in whatever form.

Drizzt was done for; Entreri had to resign himself to that thought and move on with his course lest false hope or sickening reality cut the legs from under him. If Drizzt died, that would mean the death of yet another champion, another able warrior undone by a clown sitting in a chamber miles away. Which one of them would be next and how could any of them fare against this bastard?

One phrase pulsed through Entreri's mind and became his rallying cry, his mantra, his promise: I have to end this.

"Yet again, a quicker run through the mysterious dark," he heard Wenthias mutter to Regis.

Entreri looked back for a moment enough to flash him a death glare before putting his attention forward and to his mission.

He allowed himself a deep breath, trying his best to put his nerves back in order lest they completely undo him. One other realization made him breathe a bit easier; Moril was dead quiet.

Either Moril was less vocal about his final victories or Drizzt was far from being finished off, or at least he was still twitching back for the moment. Entreri's pace hardly slowed with the realization, if not he was spurred on even further.

Another reality in the form of a small chill in the pit of his chest made him take a few casual peeks around raise his guard a bit further; young Wenthias had apparently caught up with the group. Entreri couldn't see him, but the Outsider essence in his blood gave him away.

Entreri looked back for another moment, enough to see Wenthias turn his head to the side and smirk. The assassin knew he didn't need to watch for moving lips of conversation; any exchanged cues could be done mentally.

Entreri looked forward again, feeling another sudden chill through his form; someone else was here…someone who was not in the immediate vicinity, though had an unusually strong aura.

He looked back again to see if Regis was trying anything funny, though the casual clasp of the shurikens strapped to his belt told him the halfling also noticed something off; something that made him a bit uneasy.

The look confirmed Entreri's suspicions; someone brought a bigger friend to come play, possibly a demon, maybe a divine avatar.

Entreri heard Moril give a harsh sigh mixed with a growl. He wasn't happy about something and Entreri listened carefully to what it could be while giving another careful glance back to see Wenthias once again looking forward.

_Don't mind this little development, my son. He is already a puppet to that masked pig fucker; just keep your focus on cutting him down._

Entreri smiled, a heaving sigh of relief escaping him. Drizzt was alive and brought a friend with him and Moril was inconvenienced.

----------

WraithKiss and Shadowflash connected with Jarlaxle's two blades in an almost otherworldly scream of metal. Drizzt rapidly disengaged and did a spinning slice outward. Jarlaxle sidestepped and rapidly slid back on the flats of his boots, though Drizzt was on the other side of him the second he stopped in one place, scimitar and shortsword blades whipping over each other in a blur and being met at each slice with a longsword.

Drizzt's instincts told him to take a step back, though a sudden burst of reckless confidence made him slide forward an inch from Jarlaxle and give a series of rapid feints and disengages. Jarlaxle spun his blades in wide arcs to try to tangle Drizzt's parries; a clear show of Jarlaxle's usual swashbuckling technique that always proved miraculously effective thanks to his skill.

Drizzt flicked each wrist each time, letting the flats of both blades meet the swinging longswords before launching forward between Jarlaxle's wide arcs and seeing a small opening.

The opening filled in another blur with a whirl of sword tips aiming for Drizzt's midsection like a large drill. Drizzt did a cross slash into the center, throwing of Jarlaxle's momentum and making him parry a series of rapid scissor cuts.

A double thrust sent Drizzt's blade tips flying in separate directions as he did a double thrust toward his own perceived opening. Drizzt saw the move and leapt upwards, suddenly realizing he was levitating for a moment while gently lowering back to the ground. Jarlaxle was soon floating upward and aiming his blades at Drizzt's descending head.

_House insignia, House insignia; for the love of flaming shit remember you have that! _Vhaeraun snapped.

Drizzt's mind turned on the House Do'Urden insignia Jarlaxle himself had given him nearly two years ago; minutes after Catti-brie's death. It was a way to contact Jarlaxle hundreds of miles away when his life fell apart in Icewind Dale and a way Jarlaxle kept track of him since. He had essentially forgotten drow levitation was dependent on a noble insignia.

Drizzt connected with the insignia in his neckpurse and shot back up in the air in time to parry Jarlaxle's low cut and deliver his own series of feints. The two hung in mid air, both somehow retaining their concentration while slamming blades.

Jarlaxle kicked out and Drizzt dropped his levitation, doing a double backflip and gently landing on the ground. Jarlaxle plummeted down after him, adjusting his body so he fell horizontally and did a cross slice at Drizzt's head while flipping forward. Drizzt did a split, dodging the blades and rolled backward on his feet while jumping in the air, swords thrusting upward at Jarlaxle's falling form. Jarlaxle twisted his body to narrowly avoid the blades, landing on his feet and whipping his blades horizontally.

Jarlaxle's slaps had reached a loud crescendo and he wrapped his blades around Drizzt's, only for Drizzt to connect the tips of both his blades and push forward, thrusting not only his own swords, but Jarlaxle's as well. The force of Jarlaxle's arms held then at bay for a moment, but all four swords connected with the leather straps of Jarlaxle's shoulder plates and cut through before Jarlaxle spun out and disengaged his blades in a moment as he crouched down low and spun for Drizzt's legs.

Drizzt leapt up and arched his body over Jarlaxle, making a miraculous leap while angling his heels downward at Jarlaxle's shoulders. His heels connected with the shoulder guards, sending them sliding off his shoulders as the pieces of metal bent with the direction of Drizzt's feet.

Jarlaxle whipped his body around and sending one shoulder plate to flying toward Drizzt, the other following closely behind as they sped toward Drizzt's body. Drizzt hit the first piece with WraithKiss, deflecting it back toward Jarlaxle's legs. Jarlaxle leapt and let the armor fly under him and slam against the wall. Drizzt deflected the other piece toward Jarlaxle's head, though Jarlaxle ducked low and let the second piece join its companion.

Drizzt readied another spinning leap as Jarlaxle did a crouching spin, seeing both shoulder plates imbedded halfway into the stone of the wall. He faced Jarlaxle again, giving his own horizontal slice that became vertical and soon both maneuvers formed a cross shape in mid air. Jarlaxle responded with a series of diagonal slices that missed the rapid move of blades before he did a circular swashbuckling move that tangled the blades again.

The shortsword and scimitar were in the middle of the tangle for a nanosecond before sliding outward and launching for Jarlaxle's exposed shoulders. Jarlaxle raised his blades in a parry, though Drizzt lowered himself and kicked outward against his breastplate; a previous move that earned him a nasty slice on his leg. This time both Drizzt's feet connected with the armor and threw Jarlaxle backward.

_Let me teach you a little trick, _Vhaeraun said, a smile in his tone.

Jarlaxle regained his footing and spun around with his blades leading out. Drizzt looked at the blades and let Vhaeraun's power go forth. The blades of both longswords bent backward toward Jarlaxle's midsection.

Jarlaxle managed to lower the blades, which slid into the flesh of both Jarlaxle's forearms under his leather bracers and left long cuts. Jarlaxle let go of both hilts and let the blades slide out of his flesh.

Drizzt leapt forward to take advantage of the momentary distraction, yet both longswords parried his shortsword and scimitar in a blur. Blood ran down Jarlaxle's arms, though not in the river Drizzt's blood had with one slice. Likely Jarlaxle was resistant to the enchantment on his own blades.

Drizzt did see Jarlaxle's face tighten in a wince as he whipped his blades out. He was clearly in pain, though shrugging it off quickly. The smile that formed on his face afterwards brought Drizzt more curiosity; it wasn't a smile of menace or gloating, it was a smile of peaceful satisfaction.

The longswords thrust outward, leading Drizzt to parry though Jarlaxle's own foot kicked out at Drizzt's chest. Drizzt absorbed the blow and allowed himself to go back a step, though Jarlaxle soon leapt forward, swords out and body flying.

Drizzt kicked upward in a bodily feint while spinning out of the way. Jarlaxle suddenly adjusted the momentum of his arms to encompass Drizzt once more. Drizzt then dropped down and twisted, hearing the longswords connect with the rocks and as he readied to spin low out of Jarlaxle's flying embrace.

The rock wall collapsed with the force of Drizzt and Jarlaxle's bodies. Both drow flew through the shallow rock wall in an explosion of stone and dust.

Drizzt landed hard on his back and bounced for a moment before stopping, realizing no bones were broken and his worst problem was the rock dust that found its way into his ear. He looked upward and saw trees swaying above him and a mass of white hair cascading down with the points of two longswords wielded by the still-standing drow over him.

He leapt to his feet with both swords leading. The tips bounced off Jarlaxle's breastplate, though Jarlaxle merely leaned back and kept his swords to his sides. The blades nicked a small bit of black skin, causing long trails of blood and another cringe turning into a satisfied smile. WraithKiss and Shadowflash were quickly parried as the longswords sliced out in another spinning cut, though Drizzt saw the maneuvers lacked their previous energy.

Drizzt did a series of rapid feints that blurred with his enhanced momentum. Jarlaxle lead into every one of them before thrusting out with a parry. Drizzt glanced at Jarlaxle's face, seeing a calmer expression…matching a pair of bright red eyes.

Jarlaxle cut out again with one blade, then the other. Drizzt feinted parries for each of the cuts before leaping forward with a flurry of cuts for which he anticipated more blurring parries in response.

Jarlaxle made what was clearly a half-hearted attempt at parrying though received two slices on one arm for his troubles. He didn't cringe this time, just wore a satisfied smile that Drizzt swore bore a bit of understanding, maybe even resignation.

-----------

Moril hadn't stopped grumbling.

Entreri glanced at the wall and allowed himself a grin. Wenthias met his gaze a moment later as he became a few paces closer and Entreri turned his grin into a nod while pointing around the corner to make it look like he was satisfied with their proximity to Moril.

He didn't want to further aggravate the blackguard's suspicion or make himself look like a mad man. Maybe that was Mazn'reysla's problem too, he thought with a smirk; maybe he too heard messages that elicited some reaction that no one else could hear and that is why he looked like a complete lunatic half the time. Now Entreri was in his position; he still hated the cleric though couldn't help but feel a small twinge of sympathy for him under the circumstances.

_Son, I told you to finish him, _Moril said with a huff. _Don't make me look like a complete imbecile; we have taken down temples, made goodly priests cut each other's throats, now we have the powers of a deity. Don't let a pesky little boy and his pet god trip you up._

The reference to making goodly priests cut each other's throats made Entreri cock an eyebrow as his brain calculated all of the meanings of that statement.

Selune and Torm's champions of course, he thought. They traveled together on the Dragonmere, and Moril got into their prayers too and sent them after each other. It would explain the absolute carnage on their ship. It would explain the priest's bloody sword and the dead look in his eyes when he stated that "evil has won the day."

Entreri turned another corner, about to continue straight down the hallway when his instinct pulled him to a side wall. He stopped for a moment and looked carefully at the wall, finding the crags folded on each other only from the front view though from the side they formed the sides of a doorway leading into another corridor.

Entreri did a quick scan for traps, gently patting the doorway in a few places and finding none. He slid through the narrow opening, hearing Regis and Wenthais' footsteps close behind as well as feeling the cold chill from Wenthias' son.

The chill was growing, making it clear to Entreri that Asorath was stepping a bit closer. Entreri listened to the footsteps behind him and registered the chill to fully understand Wenthias walked on one side of the tight, blue stone corridor as his son walked a few paces behind the group on the opposite side of his father. Entreri walked down the center with Regis several steps behind him in the same location.

Entreri maintained his swift, yet casual pace down the corridor though further honed his senses for any movements, any shuffling of feet, any whispers. Wenthias' heavy boots became louder and Entreri could just feel his heat pattern as he walked closer to him. Asorath's chill followed close behind; junior was still staying on his side of the corridor, though becoming closer to the center.

This was the beginning of an ambush; the assassin could smell it.

Likely Wenthias wanted him out of the way to take the glory of killing Moril, though the fact Bane's troupe had never intended to play nice in the first place was ever in the back of his mind. Maybe they could have cared less about Moril and just wanted a sacrifice, or maybe they were under Moril's command as well.

A sudden scream from Moril rang through Entreri's head. Entreri ran further down the twisting corridor, seeing another doorway he knew was the way closer to the clown. Another scan for traps later, he sprinted through the door into a wider corridor, hearing Wenthias' steps closer behind him though caring not and being ready for anything.

The scream dissipated into a mass of curses and grunts before going silent once more. It was likely a score for Drizzt, though the game was hardly finished.

A part of him dared to think that might not have been a bad development, though the image of Jarlaxle's gaunt, painted form put that momentary bit of emotion out of his head. Jarlaxle was gone to them now; death would be the only way to save him now.

"I do not place any judgment on your course, Master Entreri," Wenthias said in a high whisper that betrayed his growing frustration, "though I am becoming a bit concerned. We are now in deep caverns and you have yet to give us any indication if we are close to our destination."

"Fear not, we are very close now," Entreri said with a hint of annoyance.

His words were an instant reaction, though he did retrace his vision for a moment to check their true proximity to Moril's lair to their present location.

A sudden pressure in his temples took away his concentration and replaced it with mild alarm followed by silent rage. It was the tell-tale sign of psionic intrusion; he had spent enough time around Kimmuriel Oblodra and others of his ilk to recognize the sensation better than most humans.

Entreri suddenly cleared his mind of all thoughts, tempted to throw in an image of Toamroth's body in pieces on a ship's deck, though he knew any snark on his part could only aggravate the current situation.

Moril screamed again, followed by louder curses.

_You had better not be doing that on purpose, boy!_ Moril screamed

Entreri swore he heard a familiar chuckle just underneath Moril's ranting; a sound that made his heart leap and his stomach churn, both intensely and both at the same moment. Another scream pounded through his skull followed by a louder laugh.

It was not a scream of frustration or anger; it was a scream of agonizing pain. Jarlaxle had finally found a way to get to Moril.

Entreri kept his expression stony as he took a few more sprinting steps further and looked back at Wenthias, who was now a few feet away from him as he felt Asorath closing in as well.

"You want your clown, I have the way to him," Entreri said. "Both of us could help each other in great ways."

Wenthias' smile was too cheerful for his liking, yet he smiled back and continued forward while listening for any more of Moril's screams.

Moril could have been baiting him, though it was a chance he would have to take. If Jarlaxle or Drizzt had found a way to weaken Moril, beat him at his own game, it would be of infinite help. Entreri frankly did not want to go at Moril unless they were on an even playing field, or, better yet, he was on the higher ground.

He paced himself down the corridor. If he moved too fast he could be facing Moril head-on before he was taken down a few notches. If he tarried he had three members of the Brute Squad waiting for any excuse to eliminate him…or at least try. Maybe the Brute Squad could have been a good distraction; he could kill all of them while waiting for Moril to be finally on his last crumbling legs.

Another scream rang through his mind that was almost like music, though the press against his temples took his attention away from Moril as he quieted his mind. Moril's scream became louder, almost deafening and shrill enough to break glass.

Entreri cringed, trying to take his focus away from the screaming that was soon making his ears ache and white spots appear across his vision…along with the now intense throb in his temples. Asorath found a surface thought to latch onto and exploit and the silly human's mind was completely open.

"How close did you say Moril's lair was?" Wenthias asked in a casual, yet firm tone. His mission was only obvious now.

Entreri managed to calm his thoughts against the wave of screaming and keep walking down the corridor, though his concentration on his movements was fading fast.

The screaming stopped, though the bright light through his eyes continued. He cleared his mind once more, long enough to connect with a chill in his chest and will shadows to create a barrier in his mind. The bright light was significantly muted as he allowed a series of visions to pass through; a long, purple corridor, another door, a short yet wide corridor, and one chamber door.

"You're a strong one," Asorath's voice hissed in his ear. "I'll give you that much."

Entreri felt the pain in his temples subside as he put the barrier up harder and quickly regained his bearings. It was enough to register the shuffling of little feet and a swishing sound to his side.

He twitched his leg to the side of exactly what was coming; it was not fast enough in his current state to avoid the explosion of sickening pain through his lower leg but enough to keep from losing his leg entirely to the swing of a small mace blessed with both luck and holiness.

Entreri gritted his teeth and focused against the excruciating burn in his leg that made him want to wretch. He tightened his grip on his swords and tried to fight past the horrific burn and the numbness that followed Asorath's mental attack.

He gained his focus enough to register another swish over his head, causing him to jerk his neck forward and only have Wenthias' heavy mace leave a raking tear across the back of his scalp instead of take his head off.

Entreri tried to stay upright, though the blinding pain that enveloped his body beckoned him to the cool floor and cool oblivion. He settled for the compromise of falling to his knees while tightening his grip on his weapons. He willed the shadows further, feeling them gently caress through his veins; the shade essence he had long cursed but now knew was a part of him.

Entreri managed to find a stable position on his knees, his head aching less as the shadows countered the burn holiness ripping through his flesh.

He made himself appear prone, but tightened his muscles and made ready to pounce in the direction of any footstep or burst of wind coming his way. Instead he heard one laugh from Wenthias and two sets of footsteps walking away.

"Consider this my gift to you, Master Regis," Wenthias said, his feet staying still for a moment. "You finally get your chance to let Artemis Entreri know what fear and pain truly is."


	28. Blood for Blood

**The Lesser Evil: Hooligan's Holiday**

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of R.A. Salvatore/Wizards of the Coast ©. I don't own them; I'm just examining all their possibilities.

Author's Note: This is the official grand finale of "The Lesser Evil: Hooligan's Holiday," though two more chapters will follow to officially close the story.

**Chapter 28: Blood for Blood**

Asorath gave a chuckle, looking down at Entreri's prone form and the sight of the shivering halfling taking it all in with mace in hand.

Regis looked up and saw Asorath and his father exchange glances, likely silently communicating their plans.

The tiefling shook a lock of black hair over his shoulder, giving Regis a cruel smile as he walked past his father and took the lead down the corridor. Wenthias nodded at him, took a more comfortable grip on his mace, and followed his son.

Entreri allowed himself to stumble and fall to his side, though it was hardly a motion of defeat or submission, though Regis only saw a bloodied and broken man collapse.

His body landed on his arm and his good leg as he tightened his muscles enough to spring the first second the little bastard stepped near him; one slice through the gut, one pause, one burning husk of a halfling who had been a thorn in his side for too long.

Regis gave off a few sighs, staring down at the prone form of this horrible man who had destroyed his body and destroyed his life in too many ways. Now he was covered in his own blood, giving off a few heaving breaths in clear pain.

He kept his mace held high, putting the anger and strength in his muscles he could finally use against Entreri. He mentally rehearsed that last swipe in his mind a dozen times as he had rehearsed this moment for the past several decades.

His body, however, would not follow suit.

He imagined Entreri as bloody pulp at the base of a sloping hill; Drizzt on his knees over him, face locked in cold rage as a tear streaked down his face.

Regis tried to pry the thought out; imagining all the horrible things this man had done, replaying all the torture he had inflicted on him and his friends from cutting off the halfling's own fingers to shoving a dagger blade into Drizzt's chest.

He held his mace high, but that one thought turned his arm to stone.

Regis lowered the mace, seeing a small pool of blood in front of Entreri from his head wound. He reached forward and dipped the mace in the blood, one piece of evidence to make Wenthias think he had killed the assassin.

He stayed still and looked down at Entreri, a tear coming down his face knowing he was doing the right thing.

"I should kill you now, Artemis Entreri," he said, his voice cracking but firm as he looked at the assassin's prone form. "I should purge your evil from this world. But I will not and I will do what is truly good; I will let you live because I will not break Drizzt Do'Urden's heart again."

One sob escaped the halfling's throat as he sprinted down the hallway, the tiefling and the blackguard still in view.

Entreri held his position until the patter of feet faded. He slowly lifted his head up, seeing the back of Regis' heel before he disappeared down the corridor.

His mouth quirked into a bemused smile.

"Maybe you're not such a rat after all," Entreri muttered, shoving himself off the floor.

-------

Two deep cuts in both forearms from where his blades bent underneath his bracers, two itching, searing slices across another arm; Jarlaxle's nerves screamed, the pain slightly dulled by the cool trickle of blood from each of his gaping wounds.

Satin, fine wine, sex could not even compare to the sensation right now; it was exquisite pain, a feeling that he was indeed still alive.

Jarlaxle reacted to the searing ache from Drizzt's blades with a heavy pattern of breathing; Moril did his screaming for him, a sound that was a grand accompaniment to the exhilaration he felt now.

Drizzt pressed on with a series of thrusts Jarlaxle parried instinctively, though his moves were less automatic as they had been in the past few hours of mental fog. He spun to kick Drizzt in the chest, though Drizzt rapidly slid back a few feet and immediately sliced out for Jarlaxle's waving longsword.

Jarlaxle positioned his sword in the perfect area to disengage rapidly and allow Drizzt's black scimitar give him a shallow slice across his trousers and into the flesh of his leg. His nerves screamed again, though Moril screamed louder.

_You had better not be doing that on purpose, boy!_ Moril screamed, his voice in a mix of rage and desperation.

His extensive sympathy spell had backfired; he had commandeered his bastard son's blood to make him a perfect puppet, though had become so entangled that he felt every slice his puppet received.

Jarlaxle laughed heartily, prompting furrowed eyebrows from Drizzt as he blocked another series of feints. The energy in all of his opponent's moves was nigh gone; he was going through the motions now.

Drizzt took another look into Jarlaxle's eyes, seeing the bright shade of red that always danced with mischief and merriment. The color was dulled, though, and surrounded by a mass of diseased yellow. His face was still gaunt, though that sly smirk broke out like one beam of sunlight defying pressing storm clouds.

"Jarlaxle Baenre finally decides to pull away from daddy and come play," Drizzt said in a mocking tone, pressing in on Jarlaxle with a series of spinning feints.

Jarlaxle's smirk widened as he did a spinning kick out at Drizzt's leg, sending him scrambling for a moment though still whipping his blades as he leapt forward. Jarlaxle did another aggressive parry at WraithKiss, his sword becoming tangled with the blade as Shadowflash made a beeline for an opening around his neck.

Jarlaxle leapt back, though allowed the sword to slice through the top strap on his breastplate. He went into a crouch and spun for Drizzt's midsection, though did not parry one slice by the shortsword that cut across his forehead and made his eyes well with reactionary tears.

Moril screamed again, though the scream was suddenly replaced with maniacal laughter. Jarlaxle listened curiously for a moment before a tightness in his abdomen pulled him upright and sent his mind into a fog again.

_Oh, by the way, your other companion will be dead soon, _Moril said through screeching laughs, showing him an image of Regis and Gherbod Wenthias smashing their respective maces into Artemis Entreri's body as he stood nigh helpless. _Don't think you can impede my progress, child, most of the champions and their minions are in one big tangle of death by their own making._

Drizzt saw Jarlaxle suddenly bolt upright, his red eyes clouding into amber once more as he launched into a flurry of blows. Drizzt spun his swords to meet every one of his swipes, the longswords tangling in his blades again and disengaging to slice him across the midsection.

Drizzt spun out of the way in time to avoid being disemboweled. His armored tunic was now sliced as a shallow gash stung through his skin.

The storm clouds had folded in on the sunshine.

----------

Entreri leapt from his prone position to his legs, which nearly buckled with the surge of pain from the mace blows to his right leg and scalp. Blood had pooled underneath him and he felt dizzy.

He braced himself on the rock wall for a moment, regaining his bearings and feeling the momentary shock subside as he smiled in spite of his discomfort.

"Just a scratch," he muttered to himself.

This was hardly dying. He knew all too well what dying felt like; this was nothing in comparison.

Entreri looked down at his leg, seeing a mass of torn flesh and exposed bone that was thankfully still in tact. He felt the back of his head and felt more hair than ripped skin. His ponytail was practically dangling off his scalp, showing the section of hair pulled back with a thick leather cord saved him from worse damage.

He took a breath and leapt into a sprint down the hall. His leg ached, though he ignored it as much as he could under the circumstances.

Moril was going to die. If Entreri wasn't the one to land the killing blow, he would watch gleefully as the Brute Squad did.

That would not happen though under the present circumstances; Wenthias and his sprog meant to take the clown head on with a few mind tricks, some large weapons, and too huge balls with too little brains.

Moril would obliterate all of them and everything was likely going according to plan; save for whatever was happening with Jarlaxle.

Entreri know Moril was but a few hundred feet away and still not weakened enough for his liking. He put his focus into his aching legs, his mind reconnecting with the shadows in his body he beckoned to mend his wounds to a more manageable state.

Wisps of shadow trailed from the wound in his leg and he felt the cold comfort surrounding the back of his head. A cloud trailed around him now as the strength in his legs returned tenfold; shadows twirling around Charon's Claw as Entreri ran forward, hearing Moril give one amused laugh.

--------

Every sword thrust and slash was an unconscious movement. Jarlaxle knew the fact his mind grasped reality that much to realize that was a wonderful moment.

Moril had taken over, though any handhold on consciousness Jarlaxle could grasp could be used to propel him upward instead of send him tumbling. He tightened his grip on reality, staring into Drizzt's masked face and peering through those cold pools of lavender.

Maybe this was the sparking blow that broke Malice's chains on Zaknafein's soul.

Jarlaxle gazed into that face through the whir of swords that sliced at each other, seeing a familiar sharp nose and furrowed brow; a handsome yet hardened face twisted into snarling rage. The fight was his true art; a calling since the moment he laid eyes on his first sword that would prove to be his only true friend.

Drizzt's purple eyes briefly flashed to fiery red for a moment in Jarlaxle's mind's eye.

In that one second he was sparring with Zaknafein; wooden swords locked during the Grand Melee, Zaknafein snarling at him while he kept his cocky smirk, two children who thought themselves gods in the only place where they were not slaves.

Jarlaxle did a rapid parry into a scimitar and wildly thrust at a shortsword, scraping his weapon against the metal and rapidly disengaging. He gazed further at Drizzt, letting those bizarre lavender eyes fade back into his vision. Zaknafein boasted endlessly about the passion in those eyes, the fire with every swing and thrust.

Zaknafein saw youthful passion in those eyes untouched by the terrible truths of his people. Now those eyes lacked their innocence; two pools iced over by decades of self doubt and anger that finally froze after a moment of vengeance against the world and never thawed, though the ice only encased that fire of passion and could never snuff it out.

Jarlaxle gave a flurry of blows, rapidly crossing forearm over forearm to try to find some opening in Drizzt's defenses. He parried all of them, giving a few double-timed feints to further throw off his rhythm.

The bright red of Jarlaxle's eyes chased off all remnants of amber, prompting an unabashed smile from Drizzt. He was breaking through somehow, though for how long remained to be seen.

Jarlaxle spun one of his blades in the air, the point going from one end of his arm to another. Drizzt aimed right for the twist, just in time for Jarlaxle to twist his blade to the opposite side of Drizzt's scimitar and letting the sharp edge connect directly with the upped knuckle of his pinkie finger.

A wave of agony shot through his hand as he saw the tip of his finger fly off in a spray of blood and land in the grass on top of the rocky crags.

Drizzt furrowed his brows as his jaw dropped in disbelief as he held Jarlaxle off from another series of spinning feints and hard parries. That last maneuver was clearly planned. Jarlaxle's face twisted in pain, though the reaction looked like one of ecstasy and not torture.

Drizzt's mind went back to the Dragonmere, to the ship when the beholders claimed Linuin after a nasty fight with Toamroth's devils. Jarlaxle constantly picked at a deep gash in his arm; using the pain as something to keep him coherent and this was likely no exception.

"You ready to finally end this horse shit, Jarlaxle Baenre," Drizzt hissed, stepping in and giving a low double thrust and giving a crosscut that Jarlaxle blocked with one blade, then the other. "Are you going to let this bastard destroy you, are you going to wait for me to finally end you, or are you going to be a fucking man and break out!"

Jarlaxle kicked out at the blades, taking another slice on his leg while spinning around and thrusting. He gave a momentary glance to the blood gushing from his maimed finger. The site was gruesome, though one other thing caught his sight that truly made his skin crawl.

A series of veins took the rough shape of spiders across his hand, spreading down his arm and continuing on likely to infinity. It was the first time he had been coherent enough to see these marks on his skin.

They were the mark of Lolth's ultimate disfavor to a drow of advanced age; her shame branded into a drow's skin by her poisons taking over the recipient's body. Jarlaxle would later see the same condition in other races having nothing to do with a disappointed goddess and everything to do with a failing organ.

Jarlaxle gave a resigned laugh. It would explain why he had been so sluggish in the tenday preceding the start of their journey. At this rate, his fate was already sealed.

Jarlaxle's features tightened. He did a wide arc with his swords, feeling the parry and disengaging at the right spot close to his body where a scimitar cut through one of the side straps on his breastplate. He launched another series of wide arcing swings, some parrying Drizzt's blades and some feints engaging him in one course of maneuvering before pushing him into a different one.

He did another twirl, Drizzt meeting his every movement and going along with the motions.

Drizzt knew full well, however, there would be no peaceful, happy end to this story. He remembered what happened with Zaknafein; an enslaved body could only last independently so long. This time he would be the one to land the final blow and not subject Jarlaxle to a hard decision. It was a predicament he did not want to be in, though it was the only way it could happen.

Jarlaxle did another series of parries and thrusts, thrusting one blade out, feinting, and leading the scimitar closer to his body. Jarlaxle broke the feint, feeling Drizzt's blade slam into the same side of his breastplate and slice the last buckle.

Jarlaxle took a few steps back, swinging one arm out and pushing the horrible embossed metal off his body. He was bare to the waist now, the cool night air flowing against his cooler skin, though making him feel alive again.

Drizzt screamed, running forward and immediately being put on his heels by an aggressive series of blows. His nimble feet found his footing on the uneven terrain and kept himself steady against the wave of force that should have kicked him over. Vhaeraun had been quiet, though one moment of concentration flashed the image of a blue mask across his brain as his energy flowed through his champion and propelled him forward.

Jarlaxle swung one sword out, the other following forward in a blur. Drizzt saw his own blades working into a whir of motion, his mind trying to keep up with every erratic parry and thrust that seemed to melt in on each other into one perfect flow of chaos. Jarlaxle's eyes were their beautiful bright red hue and focused intensely on Drizzt's face.

Drizzt stopped thinking, only registering his own unconscious movements while gazing at Jarlaxle. Both still, expressionless faces regarded each other in a peaceful moment of truth…one perfect moment of peace amid the chaos. The calm of the storm.

Jarlaxle's motions rapidly halted, sending Drizzt's arms spinning. The pommel of one longsword popped against his elbow, enough to open his hand and send the shortsword in the air for one agonizing moment. Jarlaxle's grip on one hilt loosened to let go of one weapon and tightened over the hilt of Drizzt's sword.

Jarlaxle's wrist snapped out toward Drizzt and Drizzt instinctively lifted his hand to grab Jarlaxle's wrist and hold it firm.

Jarlaxle twisted his wrist toward him, the force of Drizzt's hand moving forward with the momentum.

Drizzt shouted in horror as he watched the tip of the shortsword plunge into Jarlaxle's abdomen, feeling the force of Jarlaxle's wrist pushing the blade into himself as he gave a sharp grunt followed by a shrill gasp; red eyes widening as a river of blood passed his lips.

Drizzt's moment of shock was replaced by one moment of perfect calm. He twisted his wrist and pushed the blade further into Jarlaxle's body until he felt it cutting into the hard tissue of his diseased liver.

Jarlaxle screamed, pain keeping his body upright. Drizzt gently laid a hand on his shoulder, pulling him in closer and gazing at his rapidly decreasing life essence.

The black cord around his liver pulsated as it fed from the last bits of Jarlaxle's dying energy. Drizzt pressed the sword tip against the cord and gave a silent nod to Vhaeraun that carried all instructions of what he wanted to accomplish.

Vhaeraun smiled, his shadows surging through the sword into Jarlaxle's body. Drizzt mentally directed the black force to utterly consume every last bit of the cord.

The shadows hit the cord and Drizzt heard a loud scream through his brain that intensified. He took a few staggering breaths and put his mind into a perfect state of concentration, watching the coiling blackness envelope itself around the force that kept Jarlaxle as Moril's slave and attack its very being, vaporizing it into nothingness.

The cord shot itself at Drizzt, but ran headlong into a thick wall of shadows where it evaporated.

"Be free of your chains, old friend," Drizzt whispered into Jarlaxle's ear, feeling a river of blood rushing over his shoulder from Jarlaxle's mouth and down his tunic from the initial wound.

Jarlaxle gave a few choking gasps, though Drizzt swore he heard a few chuckles wrapped in.

A mass of black light shone through Jarlaxle's form, ending in a flash as Jarlaxle went limp in Drizzt's arms.

Drizzt took a few breaths to try to ground himself, letting the chilling wave peacefully pass as he knew his friend's bonds were completely cut.

"Nice work, kid," Jarlaxle whispered his ear.

Drizzt looked down at his friend; his body soaked in blood as his complexion was near white.

Jarlaxle's trembling lips gave a weak smile, his bright red eyes gazing at the black sky surrounded by swaying trees. Another laugh escaped his lips as he savored the first moment of complete enveloping peace he had known in too long.

He sighed, feeling Drizzt lower his body to the ground as he looked into those purple eyes again. The heaviness in his lids beckoned him further.

Those bright red eyes closed and his face relaxed. It was time at last for a decent Reverie.

--------

The piercing wail nearly knocked Entreri onto the floor, though he managed to keep his footing mid sprint.

Moril was screeching now, a mass of violent, tortured wails that vibrated through the stones and made Entreri's stomach lurch with the sheer magnitude.

It was the other scream underneath Moril's that put a heaviness in his throat and behind his eyes; Jarlaxle's shrill gasps peppered with a few last triumphant chuckles as his breath passed.

Entreri forced more energy into his step, seeing a trail of shadows following him though internally he wanted to fall on his knees and shake.

Mourning would have to wait. Moril would get over the initial shock of Jarlaxle's defeat before feasting on the last surging bits of his dying energy before he was just dead. The reality Moril could try to turn Jarlaxle's freshly dead form into a zombie like he did the rest of House Mourbasin quickened Enteri's pace.

He knew exactly where he was going, instinct propelled him down the corridor whose stones glowed with faint purple faerzress he felt as if he has seen a million times before, or at least someone had. The corridor stretched out longer than he expected, though Entreri cleared his mind again and ran faster, practically floating down to the one door on the right side of the corridor that would lead him to Moril.

In a moment he was at the opening, though a part of him knew there were no traps here. He allowed himself to trust his instincts and ran through the door.

No magic or barriers awaited him; only a corridor short in length with ceilings that extended to the top of the mountain.

Entreri took a cautious look down the corridor and ducked behind an outcropping of rock. A mass of zombie clowns stood in the hallway; all scattered yet collected in a pattern outside one large chamber door.

He readied his weapons and analyzed the creatures carefully, yet none of them tumbled, none of them even registered anything around them. All of them walked in circles, twitching wildly and letting out grotesque moans. Entreri heard Moril give another groan, followed by a sharp groan from all of the zombies.

Entreri smiled and carefully walked around the rock, slipping through the throng of zombies that had no idea he was there.

Through the crowd of creatures, the purple reflection of faerzress off a polished set of black armor caught Entreri's attention. He hid himself behind creature after creature while pacing forward.

Wenthias merely pushed a few creatures out of his way with, thankfully, no explosions. Regis' small form darted through undead legs after the blackguard as Entereri saw Asorath walking around his father with his back to the stone wall.

Entreri quickened his pace, moving from creature to creature without making any contact or giving away his form. He willed another cloud of shadows around him to obfuscate his presence as he now stood but ten feet away from the Brute Squad.

Wenthias listened at the stone door before kicking it in; the hinges breaking and the door staying in place on the other side of the frame as the blackguard and his minions casually stepped in.

Entreri paused for a moment, before stepping forward and willing himself to float with the shadows toward the doorway. With a sudden rush of cold air, he was leaning in the doorway and looking into the massive blue chamber.

The three forms of the tiefling, the blackguard, and the halfling were the only life to be found in the room, yet the series of cries and whimpers that had shot through Entreri's brain now greeted his ears through the echoes of the wide, circular room. He casually entered, peering through Wenthias and Asorath and seeing a withered figure on his knees at the base of a scrying pool.

It was a face he had seen in his visions and beheld now; a mass of misshapen flesh stretched across a skull, skin a sickly gray with the faint remnants of drow pigment left after a brutal flaying. Moril's head was low, though Entreri saw the profile complete with a small bud that had once been a nose and eyes bearing scars resembling painted diamonds.

Moril sat cross legged on the floor trembling, his deformed face buried in his gloved hands as he gave off whimpers.

In this state he hardly looked menacing, though Entreri learned from the first moments of his life appearances meant nothing in relation to power. He stared at this man with cold hate, though held back and waited to see how the potential mess in front of him would unfold.

Regis took a few tentative steps toward Moril, keeping behind the base of the scrying pool while cautiously sticking out a toe to get a better look at him; mace in hand and ready to swing while staring at the hideous creature sitting in front of him.

Asorath stepped closer and snuck a little behind him as Wenthias hoisted his weight square in front of him. His mace was in one hand as the other rested on his hip. Entreri could see the smug smile on the blackguard's face as he finally faced his quarry.

"So we meet the foul villain Moril at last," Wenthias said in a booming, proud tone that echoed through the room.

Moril's whimpering gradually ceased and his amber eyes slowly turned upward to Wenthias.

Entreri kept back, cautiously waiting for the inevitable moment when this supposedly feeble creature would strike like a cornered serpent.

Moril pulled up one finger from his glove with a shaking hand, lifting off the entire hand and revealing a scarred stump underneath.

Regis grimaced before quickly pulling his wits back. The appearance of this creature twisted his stomach, though he would remain firm to the very end.

"Gherbod Rilseveau Wenthias the third," Moril hissed, spittle spraying past his lipless mouth.

"Champion and faithful servant of Bane," Wenthias replied with a nod, casually raising his mace. "And I have come to repay some injuries you have committed upon my master."

Wenthias raised the mace, though stayed his hand as he watched Asorath double over with a scream. Moril gave what resembled a self-satisfied smirk at Wenthias, savoring the series of gasps coming from Asorath as his skin became red and his eyes bulged.

Entreri grabbed the doorway, readying himself to spring; junior tried something he shouldn't have and Moril would have one last satisfaction.

Wenthias stepped forward and swung his mace, just as Moril pointed upward at Asorath and pointed at his father.

Asorath leapt forward, green psi blade in his hand as he swung at his father. Wenthias swung at his son, hitting him in the leg with a splash of blood and a crack of bone. Asorath's eyes widened as he stared at his father.

Wenthias dropped his mace with a clang and doubled over, grabbing his head and screaming.

Regis stepped slid behind the base of the scrying pool looking at the scene in horror. A series of light, determined footsteps across the chamber took his attention away from the melee and to the shadow-encased form of Artemis Entreri walking across the hallway; blades in hand and face in hard determination.

"Play time is over, Nzifrel Baenre," Entreri shouted, pointing Charon's Claw at Moril and visualizing a cord of shadows shooting from the blade and around the clown's form.

Moril gave a gurgling cackle, until the last syllable of his true, Lolth-given name was recited.

A mass of shadow shot through the tip of the red blade, connecting briefly with a blue barrier around Moril that burst in a flash of light. The cord wrapped around his body, coiling up his neck and around his mouth while hoisting his form off the floor and into the air.

The crushing mass of shadows burned through his skin as he struggled wildly. Moril screamed a series of curses that were choked off with the shadowy cord wrapping around his throat.

Asorath feel to the floor as Wenthias' head rose to see Moril bound and gagged before him. He clenched his teeth and snatched his mace from the floor, grinning at the prone, struggling form of his quarry.

Entreri casually walked across the room, seeing Wenthias rush up to Moril and smash him in the gut with his mace, not enough to kill him but enough for him to feel pain. Moril still twitched as Regis ran forward and smashed him across the hip with his own mace with a loud shatter of bone.

Moril let out a series of muted screams, his blood spattering through the shadow cords and sizzling before drizzling the floor.

His fading vision looked past his two attackers to the other human in front of him bearing the angled nose and chisled features of Velz Auken.

Entreri gave him one shake of the head before thrusting Charon's Claw through his gut.

"Hope you enjoyed yourself," he said, feeling the shadows pour from the blade.

Moril screamed as his body was encased in black flames that consumed everything. Wenthias and Regis stood back, watching the flesh melt from his skull and his screaming skeleton twitch before them.

Wenthias hoisted his mace and slammed it into Moril's head with full force. Moril's skull exploded and his body burst into a mass of gray dust that formed a small pile on the floor.

Entreri, Regis, and Wenthias stood back; gazing at the pile of ashes on the floor with blank looks, though various emotions surged through all of them.

A ray of black light shone on the ashes, prompting all three to look back and see the mass of drow that had entered the chamber and stood back in ready positions.

Ilzir Mourbasin walked closer to the group, black spider web skirt dancing over the stones. She looked forward with calm hate in her red eyes as she aimed a wand in her hand that projected a beam of anti-matter at the ashes.

Her red lips formed into a smile at the mass of ashes that dissipated into nothingness.

Entreri gazed at her, staring at her cruel eyes surrounded by a black mask and lithe form encased in a dress of black webs. It looked as if Lolth herself stood and smirked at the obliterated remains of her failed servant.

"Here lies Nazir Klau'Thest," Entreri said, keeping his gaze to the floor, allowing himself a heaving sigh of relief.

It was now over.

-------

A gentle breeze tickled the exposed tip if his pointed ear, though his face now ached with the mass of pointed stones that dug into the side of his face.

Jarlaxle's heavy lids gradually opened to see the rocky hillside on which his form was prone. He managed to twist his torso around, feeling the itchy scratch of dried blood caked across his abdomen where it flowed like a river before. His heart pounded in his eardrums as he took a few breaths that came a bit easier than before.

He was alive.

Jarlaxle managed a groan as he turned his aching head upward and pried his eyes open.

Another set of red eyes looked down on him framed by a mass of long, blond hair. Mazn'reysla looked at him with an expression of childlike curiosity and vindictive glee.

"Well met," Jarlaxle said, his voice barely above a whisper though any coherent words were a miracle.

"It's funny," the cleric said in a chipper sneer. "There was one point in history when I would have adored seeing you sprawled out in a river of your own blood barely able to gurgle your last words. Though considering the circumstances, I have had a change of heart. So I saw you here, barely a second from kicking off this realm at last to your…well to somewhere and decided to give you a little healing spel."

Mazn'reysla patted him on the shoulder. Jarlaxle managed a smile, looking up and seeing several other black forms along the hillside.

His eyes trailed further, finally spotting one lithe form with short white hair walking dazed down the rocks. Drizzt's arms were at his sides, hands still clutching weapons whose points vibrated with his violently shaking hands.

That yellow mane got in his way again and its owner looked down at him thoughtfully.

"Can I assume you will make some effort to put me back together," Jarlaxle said with a cough he managed to turn to a laugh.

"We owe you much," Maz said, his smile actually sincere. "The process will be long and painful, though you will be your usual smarmy self in time."

Jarlaxle smiled despite the strong ache through his entire body.

"I do demand a bath, and silk bed linens," he said.

Maz smiled wider.

"What about the hair," the cleric asked.

"One thing at a time," Jarlaxle replied, letting his head rest on the ground as he looked up at the glowing red sky of daybreak with a beaming grin.


	29. Full Circle

**The Lesser Evil: Hooligan's Holiday**

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of R.A. Salvatore/Wizards of the Coast ©. I don't own them; I'm just examining all their possibilities.

**Chapter 29: Full Circle**

His weapons hung heavily at his sides, the flats occasionally slapping against his legs with the violent shake of his hands. He thought to sheathe the blades, but forgot and continued walking; more attention now going into retaining his footing as he walked over the jagged rocks.

Drizzt knew it would end up like this; all he needed to do was stay still for one second and his adrenaline would crash and everything he had put his body through in the last few hours crashed on him like a pile of rocks he had stacked himself.

The godly energy still flowed through his body, though it was doing little against the inevitable. He swore he felt a hand on his shoulder patting him on the back in cold comfort as a small chill that seemed to crawl out of him.

A part of him wanted to look back up to see what he left on top of the hill; to see whose corpse he left on top of the hill.

The chill grew, taking over his body and threatening to freeze him in place for a moment before the sensation faded and the cool air felt almost stiflingly hot.

Gradually, his consciousness caught up with him enough to keep the thought of sheathing his blades. One scimitar went into its empty sheath and one shortsword slid into the scabbard on his back, both with screams of metal that made him cringe and were the death knell of all that he had been through.

He managed to walk a few steps down the steepest part of the hill before stopping at a flat plateau overlooking the plain and tufts of trees that dotted the land below joined by small piles of ashes. Drizzt did not want to look directly below him to see the scattered bodies of Moril's servants…of Vhaeraun's servants defiled in death.

Drizzt closed his eyes and gave a heaving sigh with a sob sneaking past, feeling himself gently drop to his knees on the boulder. At last he looked out on the plain, not flinching when seeing the painted white faces on the detached heads and bodies frozen on the ground in one final contortion.

Drizzt shifted his weight and sat on his legs while taking a series of deep breaths, inhaling the cool night air and the smell of trees tainted by the smell of blood lingering in his memory.

Those memories of the last few hours called to him, beckoned him closer though he knew if he drifted toward them it would rip him apart. He did not to think on the horrifying reality lying in a river of his own blood on that hill. He did not want to think on the brother, the closest friend he had in too long that had run himself through on Drizzt's own blade.

Drizzt's shaking hands reached into his belt, a part of him crying out in relief when he found rolled clove stuck in his pouch.

He took the stick out of his pouch and placed it between his lips. He then drew a match, though his shaking fingers almost dropped it before he gained enough of a hold to strike it against the stone and light the stick.

Drizzt took a long draw, ignoring the slight burn from shallowly inhaling the smoke as he pulled it from his lips and blew a long stream while shaking out the match and dropping it on the rock. The smoke from the end of the stick jumped around in correspondence with the violent shaking of his hands.

The smoke calmed him slightly, putting a sweeter smell in his nose besides the blood and connecting him with the other natural smells surrounding him. He took another hard sigh, not knowing if he wanted to cry or break something.

A cold hand gently caressed his shoulder. He did not need to look behind him to see who it was; the chill through him and the rising shadows around him were enough of an indicator.

"My champion," the oily voice said, the sound clear to his ears and not ringing through his brain. "You have fought well. I am pleased."

Drizzt managed a smile in spite of himself.

A pair of gold eyes dancing behind a shadowy mask appeared in front of him, mouth in a wicked smirk as gold hair danced in the breeze around his face.

"That is probably the happiest thing I've heard in a while," Drizzt said, a cackle escaping his throat.

Vhaeraun smiled and laughed, his gold hair almost glowing.

"There is much happiness to be had, my champion," Vhaeraun said.

Drizzt felt another set of arms wrap around his body; cold arms of shadows. A lock of white hair rested on his shoulder, causing him to look back into another pair of lavender eyes.

He smiled on Hallia's face for a moment, before his vision washed into a mass of shadows.

A horrid, skeletal looking figure in a robe, black on one side white on the other; body bound in a cord of shadow as his screams wailed through the universe. A heavy mace smashed into his abdomen, a light mace wielded by a halfling's hand smashed into his hip.

A black-clad figure casually approached; black hair matted in blood, unkempt beard giving him a wild appearance though his cold black eyes were pure control focused on his prey.

Charon's Claws red blade pierced through his gut as a wreath of shadows surrounded Artemis Entreri.

"I hope you enjoyed yourself," Entreri said.

In the shadows behind his companion, Drizzt swore he saw another figure; a drow with Entreri's features looking on, shadowed cloak whipping in the astral wind as he watched his descendent with vindictive pride.

Moril's body erupted in shadowy flames as he screamed one last time through the universe; against everything he had manipulated that had claimed him at last. His body erupted into ash and scattered on the floor.

Drizzt's vision returned, leaving him again face to face with Vhaeraun. Drizzt smiled, a heaving sigh escaping his lips as he sat back on the ground.

Vhaeraun snickered, raising the clove stick he took from Drizzt to his own lips and taking a long draw, blowing out a stream that more resembled shadows than smoke.

"Nice work," Vhaeraun said with a cackle. Drizzt could feel the final joy from his god, though the sight of Hallia Mourbasin standing beside him, nodding at him in approval that truly gave him glee.

Vhaeraun and Hallia's forms dissipated in a mass of shadows and soon cleared the mountain.

Drizzt's back gently came to the ground, his adrenaline crashing. He gave a cursory glance around the perimeter before passing out.

The soft press of lips against his mouth returned a bit of his senses. He had no idea how long he had been unconscious, though managed enough awareness to slowly open his eyes and see a pair of large red eyes framed by a mass of champagne blond hair.

Drizzt's hands reached up to Mazn'reysla's shoulders as he pulled him down for a deeper kiss. Maz's hands caressed the sides of Drizzt's neck, running through his hair as both kissed each other with passion and the satisfaction of seeing a nightmare ended. A small tear ran down Drizzt's face as a sighing chuckle came forth; it was the purest form of relief.

Drizzt opened his eyes, allowing Mazn'reysla to gently lift him to a sit. Maz nodded, motioning his head to look behind him with a small smile.

Lazily, Drizzt turned his head, having no idea what the cleric was showing him.

Lying on the hill side, attended by a mass of drow in black masks was Jarlaxle. Drizzt's stomach sank for a moment, though a fire burned through his chest when he saw his companion turn his head and look around at the priests, his lips moving in a few bits of struggling, yet active conversation.

Drizzt came to his feet in a second, meeting Jarlaxle's gaze. Jarlaxle smiled at him, one upraised thumb in his direction. Drizzt's knees felt weak, though he kept standing.

The mass of drow, likely from House Mourbasin, looked down at him; faces in near awe. One priest bowed, followed by the other clerics, all giving him shallow bows of profound appreciation.

Drizzt returned the bow, unsheathing the shortsword on his back and saluting with a wide grin.

There was much happiness to be had here.

-----------

The nerves in Entreri's torn scalp screamed with the gentle lay of hands from his attending cleric, the pain soon replaced by a warm mass of energy. A moment later, the pain was gone and only a slight tenderness was left.

His hand reached for his scalp, feeling his ponytail still in place and the mass of torn flesh around it in tact as if nothing had happened. He smiled, thinking they would have to cut his hair, though this seemed to do the job.

Entreri looked back at the young drow behind him wearing a black mask, a sight that he found almost comforting.

"Thanks," he said.

"It was nothing," the drow, Vraenil Entreri remembered him called, said. "Your leg still feeling better?"

Entreri looked down to his exposed shin, his trousers cut away and covered in blood though the skin underneath was slightly pink. He flexed his ankle and felt a slight strain, though nothing some light walking couldn't cure.

"Nice work," he said with an approving nod.

"You tell me if you need any more aid," Vraenil said, aside to a small group of clerics at the side of the large, stone chamber.

Entreri put his hands behind his head, lying back on his cot while his eyes scanned the side space used as a makeshift triage area.

Another cot on the side of the room held Asorath Wenthias, one cleric laying hands on him as his head turned back and forth against his pillow. The blackguard Wenthias kneeling at his side and watched on in concern.

Regis stood by the wall, nervously looking over the scene. His eyes occasionally came to Entreri and lingered for a moment before darting off to something else. Entreri gave him no glares, no smiles; just a momentary glance of recognition, noting how Regis was not flinching his gaze away.

"Hey man, you look like shit," a laughing voice called from the side of the room.

Entreri lifted himself to a sit as Fielder looked at him with a manure-eating grin. The ranger's armor bore a few scratches and splashes of black blood. Other than a small scratch on his forehead, he looked fine.

Linuin stood behind him almost as if trying to hide. Entreri saw one female drow in leather armor emerge from the blue glowing portal behind them before the portal's light dissipated and a rocky frame was left. Linuin's robes were slightly torn, though not a scratch marred his pale, moon elf skin.

"I see you made it out," Entreri said dourly. The sight of the savage ranger would typically produce an eyeroll, though he was actually happy to see him. Even the sight of Linuin, who he still had not completely excused for the incident on the Dragonmere, was something positive.

"Fuck man, I haven't had fun like that in too godsdamned long," Fielder said, shaking his fist bearing his blood-covered claw bracer.

Fielder approached him and clasped his forearm. Entreri allowed the gesture with a stiff smile, though kept his other hand close to his dagger.

"You fucking did it, man," Fielder said with a laugh.

"He did indeed," another voice said from Entreri's side.

Entreri's legs casually swung to the other side of the cot and he brought himself to an aching stand. He would have a clearer shot at Wenthias' midsection if he was sitting, though the idea of this bastard looking down on him again was one he could not bear at the moment.

"He proved my own hypocrisy," Wenthias said with a small bow. "My pride got in the way of reason, Master Entreri. The closer we got to Moril, the more I wanted my weapon to deliver the killing blow."

"And I just happened to be in the way of your prize," Entreri said with a stiff smile, keeping the situation light while communicating he still wasn't amused.

"Yet you saved all our lives when my pride could have destroyed us all," Wenthias said. "Master Entreri I profoundly apologize for my foolishness. I acted hastily against a foe about whom I knew little and acted against an ally who knew his weak points."

Enteri's smile widened. Wenthias was a snake; he could just smell it on him. It was another contrived statement, though Entreri did read a small bit of sincerity in his voice. Appreciation for retaining one's skin was universal as was digging oneself out of a hole dug by his own stupidity. Entreri knew a humbled creature when he saw one; he didn't trust him as far as he could throw his corpse though a bit of diplomacy was in order.

"Apology accepted," Entreri said. "We all should be walking out of this alive and that is recompense enough. How fares your son?"

Wenthias gave a glance back at Asorath's cot.

"It was a minor mental blast," Wenthias said, wincing slightly. "I am told he should be awake soon, back on his feet within a day or so."

"I wish him the best then," Entreri said in the sincerest voice he could muster. The kid staying alive would be another slice of humble pie for Wenthias and he could tell the blackguard truly cared for his son.

Wenthias nodded and walked away, his attention back on his son. Regis also carefully approached him, not looking at Wenthias though walking up to Entreri with mustered pride.

"Glad to see you are well," Regis said.

Entreri smiled.

"Thanks to you," Entreri replied in his sweetest tone, though the halfling's nervous shift at the words made his heart leap.

The assassin was tempted to gloat, tell the rat how he saved his own life by not taking that swing. Entreri kept his mouth shut, though; it was a revelation best made for another time. Regis nodded and shifted back toward Wenthias.

Entreri saw no awkwardness between the halfling and the blackguard; Wenthias probably couldn't have care less about Regis' momentary valor, in fact he was probably glad for it for the sake of his own neck.

"Well this is boring as shit," Fielder said, walking away from Entreri while patting him on the shoulder. "Hey anyone got any liquor here."

Entreri gave an involuntary snicker; a good hard drink sounded good to him too.

The portal glowed with a blue light again. Entreri looked over to see a familiar blond drow stepping into the room. Mazn'reysla apparently survived his part of the melee. The drow who stepped in next made him smirk wider than he intended.

Drizzt Do'Urden stepped through the portal; his clothes torn and covered in dried blood. His ebony face was almost a shade of gray and his short, white hair was tousled with drips of blood. He had been through the Hells, but he was alive.

Drizzt and Entreri locked eyes, both men giving each other a nod of recognition though smiles fought past their stony exteriors.

Drizzt walked up to his human companion and gave him a hearty clap on the shoulder. Entreri returned the motion with his opposite hand, though both soon pulled each other into a loose embrace. True affection was never Entreri's intention, though seeing his surviving companion after all they both had been through warranted some gesture of appreciation.

"Well met, monster slayer," Drizzt said to Entreri, pulling him in tighter for a moment before both let go.

Entreri wanted to make a comment in return, though the sudden tightness in hthe back of his throat kept him quiet. He needed to ask about Jarlaxle, but he knew what the answer would probably be.

Another flash from the portal provided his brain a needed distraction, though the sight of a group of drow grasping the corners of a blanket made him go numb.

Entreri slowly walked forward, staring through the throng of masked drow down at the figure on the blanket for one final confirmation.

His newly grown white hair was covered in blood as a mass of dried blood caked his bare torso. Jarlaxle's face was still ash gray, the spidery veins all over his bare skin. His head was turned to the side and Entreri could see his eyes were closed; at peace at last.

The drow carrying his body paused, allowing his companion a better look at him. Entreri walked closer; the sight of his chest steadily rising and falling with peaceful breaths froze him in place.

"Did we make a little discovery?" Drizzt asked.

Entreri walked to his prone companion, reaching forward and putting two fingers on the side of his neck; feeling a weak, but steady pulse. Jarlaxle's head slightly shifted, his lips momentarily quirked into a smile, though his eyes remained closed.

The drow carrying him gave Entreri a nod before walking off, placing him on an empty cot across from Asorath as a mass of clerics gathered around him. Wenthias gave Entreri and Drizzt a surprised look. Drizzt's attention, however, locked on the wide smile on Regis' face; he looked almost happy to see him still alive.

"He lives," Mazn'reysla said, walking closer to Drizzt and Entreri and placing his gaze on the human. "I am sure from your perspective, and Moril's, it did not sound that way."

Entreri was momentarily taken aback by the priest's observation, though it did not surprise him as much; he was probably listening to the same astral messages.

"You took him down," Entreri said, looking at Drizzt.

"He took himself down," Drizzt replied, face grave. "Grabbed my sword arm and used it to run himself through."

Entreri shuttered and nodded. Jarlaxle had slipped from his leash long enough to get at Moril by allowing himself to be hurt.

"It was all he had left to do," Entreri said.

"It was Vhaeraun's sword that ran him through," Maz continued. "Out lord's champion focused his energy and obliterated the leash that held Jarlaxle. As for Jarlaxle himself, he was near death when Moril met his end. I little spell from my hand kept him on this plane, for a little while at least."

"What happens now," Entreri asked.

"We examine him, find how much his disease has progressed, and determine the best course of treatment," Mazn'reysla said. "It is nothing beyond our knowledge or our resources."

"He will live by our power," Ilzir said, walking from the side of the chamber and approaching the group. Her spiderweb dress took Drizzt aback a little as Entreri still smiled with the irony. "The son of the man who betrayed us saved our House through his sacrifice. I cannot guarantee he will be restored to full health, though he will be a bit more functional."

Entreri and Drizzt exchanged glances. Entreri was still not entirely thrilled with the idea of trusting a companion to the care of any cleric. Under the circumstances, however, he was willing to let down his guard if only an inch.

Drizzt could see the reluctance in his eyes, though he would also see a hint of resignation.

"I will trust your skills," Entreri said. "Though only knowing he is resigned to his fate either way."

Ilzir simply smiled.

---------

Regis had mentally traced the blue glowing veins in the stones that comprised the ceiling, hoping sleep would come to him at last.

His heart still pounded in his ears and the sensation of swinging a mace or running at a foe twitched through his muscles though the battle ended several hours ago.

Regis pulled himself to a sit in the plush bed in his guest room, his mind desiring sleep though the rest of him would not yield. His eyes instead scanned the large room he had been given for temporary quarters as the rest of the company rested and recuperated from the final battle against Moril.

The caverns of House Mourbasin were still unstable. Matron Ilzir, as that was apparently what she was calling herself now, said the remaining drow would have to sift through the remains of their House dissipating any necromantic taint or disposing of any more creatures Moril may have brought in during his stay. It was even debatable whether the current caverns would continue to be their haven, especially with stirrings that minions of Lolth now knew the location of the renegade House.

It was a concern the House members kept to themselves and their immediate allies. Regardless, the caverns were especially not an appropriate space for Asorath and Jarlaxle, the two members of the company who required the most healing after the battle.

The champions and their associates were taken by portal to a kind of Underdark townhouse near the city of Sshamath that Ilzir owned with her cousin Zaneil Vlath'Olrun, House Mourbasin's weaponsmaster. The house had mostly been used for boarding space for House members who were doing extensive business in Sshamath where regular portal commute would have been too inconvenient.

Judging by the wide space and many rooms Regis had seen before being shown his own space, it looked like a drow's version of a cosmopolitan hideout. His room was in the same wing with the blackguard Wenthias and his son, who had opened his eyes and spoken a few coherent words last Regis saw him.

Fielder and Linuin were gone. Once the company had settled into their respective rooms, the ranger and elf wizard were soon in Regis' doorway.

"We'd love to stay and party, little man, but we got some more fun things to do back in Cormanthor," Fielder said, getting on one knee to better speak to the halfling. Linuin remained in the doorway rolling his bulging eyes.

Regis had also recalled Ilzir mentioning the House had a portal to Cormanthor that would easily transport everyone to their respective homes. He remembered seeing Drizzt's ears perk up with the announcement; though to Regis' knowledge, Drizzt and Entreri were in the townhouse, likely to stay with Jarlaxle.

Regis nodded with Fielder's announcement. He knew knowing full well Fielder wasn't waiting up for Wenthias, likely wanting to get away from him or at least a head start. Regis knew of no conversations between the blackguard and the ranger since the end of the battle. Wenthias was staying quiet, though the look of annoyance on his face every time Fielder was a few feet from him was in plain view.

Fielder did give Regis a huge hug in parting.

"You ever want to come to my woods and hang out, little man, I'm not hard to find," Fielder said. "I got an old friend who's also a halfling, runs a little grove and makes the best meat pies. Her name's Miss Biddy and you guys would get along great."

Regis smiled and wished both of them well. Whoever Miss Biddy was, she was probably someone he would likely not want to be near without a weapon; though it was the thought that counted. Knowing Fielder, the thought of what was in those meat pies made his stomach churn a little, though did made him want a snack, or at least an excuse to get out of the room for a while.

He swing his legs off the high bed and walked toward the thick curtain that comprised the door, pulling it back a peek to see no one in the wide expanse of hallway before carefully walking out.

The rest of the hallway was comprised of the same glowing rocks, though small sconces with glowing balls lit the hallway enough for the halfling to see. No one passed through the hallways now; he saw a few members of House Mourbasin milling around a few hours back though the townhouse was mostly quiet now. To his knowledge, likely the only occupants now were the rest of the company.

It was around noon, though everything looked like night. Such was the nature of the Underdark, Regis thought, though the idea of living with a space with no view of sunlight made him slightly uneasy. No wonder why Drizzt made a point of watching the sunrise every morning.

He passed one curtained doorway, pausing in front for a moment of internal debate that ended quickly. A small hand slightly parted the curtain a crack; he had spied through many of these kinds of doorways to know a small shift of the curtain was not enough to trigger any alarm spells or wards. Under the hand of a halfling thief, it would be as if the curtain shifted slightly with its own weight while the halfling saw everything.

The fact he was peeking through the doorways of merciless, trained killers did not give him as much pause as it should have; it actually made him reminiscent.

The room had the same slight glow as his own, giving him the faint yet obvious view of Sir Wenthias' form bundled up under the covers and sleeping blissfully. Regis saw the faint peak of a white bed shirt under the mass of covers he had pulled around himself; face relaxed, almost in a peaceful smile while his chest rose and fell.

Regis smiled, gently letting go of the curtain and walking to the next room where he knew the drow had taken Asorath.

A small hand slightly brushed the curtain as the halfling looked in to see Asorath sitting cross-legged bed. His back was to the door and his attention was on a small flame floating above his upturned palm. A moment later, the flame puffed out and reappeared shortly after. Regis looked in at another angle to see a smile form on the tiefling's face as he nodded; his powers had already recovered from Moril's attack.

Regis let go of the curtain and walked down the opposite end of the hallway.

Wenthias had mentioned something to Ilzir about wanting to leave as soon as Asorath had recovered enough of his strength; he was anxious to get back to Castle Wenthias for reasons Regis could only imagine.

He and the blackguard had spoken little since the end of the battle; Wenthias hardly seemed to care about Regis' last minute decision to spare Entreri, though he had not been as open for conversation as he had been. It could have been due to his worries for his son, or perhaps he was making arrangements to punish the halfling somehow. That punishment had yet to happen and Regis doubted it would under the circumstances; Regis would just be forgotten and left to his own fate.

That fate was something Regis had tried hard not to ponder yet he had to make some decisions soon. Every other member of the party had somewhere to go after the dust settled.

Regis, however, had options for places yet none that truly made him feel like any home. He knew he should return to Waterdeep, tell of the mission's progress to the temple of Tymora and oversee any proper memorial to Jordani Pilazi. The thought of returning was hardly a warm one; he would return to the temple…then what.

Jordani was dead, the rest of the company likely scattered in Saerloon after Regis was pulled in other directions. He barely even cared that much about Jordani's hangers-on to even know all their names let alone consider them friends.

Returning to Mithral Hall was not even an option at this point. Bruenor and Wulfgar, if he was even still around, were the two people he wanted to see the least. He was primed for more adventure and had no desire to return to a tomb.

Knowing what he did about Drizzt further sealed off that possibility. He would be returning to a lie; not just the lie about Drizzt's death but the overall lie that the Hall seemed to embody. The Companions of the Hall were a memory locked in the very stones of Mithral Hall.

Mithral Hall was now home to a population of war mongering dwarves lead by a king who had lost interest in life and a barbarian prince whose ego grew by the second. The princess was dead and the drow hero had lost his soul…or perhaps found another one.

Mithral Hall was now a shrine to the memory of Drizzt Do'Urden the storied drow ranger; a champion of goodness who died fighting his evil kin. That man was dead, or maybe had never truly lived at all.

Regis continued down the hallway toward another wing of the house where he knew a few other people took their rest.

His thoughts went back to his room where a certain figurine remained hidden in a small bag of holding tucked under his bed where no one could find it. A part of him knew he should not be the one to protect it now; he was not her true master.

A drow emerging from behind one of the curtains down the hallway sent Regis scuttling behind a pedestal on which a stalk of moss grew like a twisting tree. The drow, a masked male cleric, walked down the hallway past Regis and not seeming to notice his presence at all.

Regis carefully shifted from his hiding space and moved back to the middle of the hallway, walking a few more steps until he was at the door from which the cleric had emerged earlier. He carefully peeled back the curtain, though knew whoever was inside was likely not coherent enough to notice him.

A small glow ball on the wall illuminated the room in a soft, bluish-white light fully revealing Jarlaxle's unconscious form lying in a plush bed surrounded by silk sheets and a silk coverlet. He was clad in a gray cotton bedshirt that exposed a portion of his chest to his collarbone.

He looked emaciated, though his complexion was much darker than the deathly pale from before. Most of the spidery veins scattered across his skin were gone, a few remaining on his neck and exposed hand. His chest rose and fell with strong breaths and Regis swore he saw a hint of a smile on his face.

The long mane of white hair that was matted and wild before had been carefully brushed out and framed his face. Regis swore for a moment he was looking at a completely different person, though that face would be etched in his memory forever.

Regis gave a silent nod with a smile while walking away from the doorway; Moril's champion was healing rapidly, being scoured of the taint that cursed his veins.

He proceeded further down the hallway, stopping in his tracks at a light from around the corner. Regis carefully peeked around the hallway to see the light from a glowing lamp that illuminated a small sitting area at the end of the hallway.

Artemis Entreri sat on a couch looking over a few items laid out on a long coffee table with a somewhat confused expression. He sipped a small glass of wine before putting it down on an end table and picking up what looked to Regis like a silver collar.

Entreri put the item down, and picked up another item; a small disk with a spider embossed in it.

Regis mentally lauded himself for being able to look at this horrible man for so long without any desire to flinch or even look away. Maybe he wasn't as scary as Regis always remembered him. Maybe Regis now saw him like he did back in Pasha Pook's guild; a hardened killer, yes, but just another rogue he passed by everyday. Such things never bothered him as much then.

Then he would spend the next twenty years with Bruenor and his family where such thieves and brigands were hunted down for their proper "punishment;" people like the ones Regis had called friends and protectors for most of his life.

Entreri looked almost casual right now, clad in a simple white shirt; his long black hair was out of its usual ponytail and cascaded down his back and shoulders bearing a residual wet slick from bathing. He had shaved since the battle, though Regis was still not used to seeing him with a thin beard instead of an unkempt shadow.

The way he was blinking hard and making a clear effort to keep his head up also indicated he was close to nodding off, though Regis knew better than to assume his guard was down.

The curtain on the last door down the corridor was open, signifying to Regis that particular room was Entreri's, though the halfling stood by another door with a closed curtain.

Regis stepped away from the corner, Entreri still not giving any indication he had seen him as he carefully peeked through the last doorway.

The black skin and short white hair was an instant giveaway, as was the long scar across his back a certain human had given him ages ago. The scar now rested under a tattooed imprint of a mass of green leaves collecting at the union between his neck and shoulders.

Drizzt Do'Urden lay on his stomach, eyes closed in peaceful Reverie. Regis took another look through the blue glow of the room to see another black figure lying underneath him as his arm rested across his bare shoulders.

Mazn'reysla also looked asleep; his champagne-blond hair crunched against the pillow, a slender arm around Drizzt as his face was nuzzled into Drizzt's neck like a cat nuzzling a pillow.

Regis never wanted to snoop on an intimate moment, though the scene struck him deep.

His hair was different, his skin was marked with ink, and he cradled the sleeping, naked form of a male dark elf and couldn't have looked more at peace.

Regis remembered seeing this scene a few times before; Drizzt and Catti-brie in their tent during an adventure or in their room at the Hall. Those were happy times then.

Those times were over, though another time had come in and taken its place.

Regis casually closed the curtain with a tear forming in his eye, walking away and letting the two have their moment of peace.

-----------

"You back from the dead, khal abbil, or just loitering among the living?" a familiar voice said.

Jarlaxle turned his head toward the door and managed to pull his aching body up a bit more as he watched Drizzt take a seat in a plush chair next to his bed.

"The living are so much more amusing," Jarlaxle said, his voice still weak though Drizzt only heard his friend in that voice.

Jarlaxle still looked like the Hells, though not like a corpse; nothing like the dying flesh puppet Moril used against him.

It had not even been a tenday and already he was coherent. His complexion, while still pallid, was more drow ebony than corpse gray and bore no memory of any of the spidery veins that coursed his skin. What gave Drizzt the most pause was his eyes; back to their normal bright red hue and surrounded by healthy white and not sickly yellow.

The fact he was actually moving was miracle enough. The image of him throwing himself on Drizzt's blade and lying in a river of his own blood would be one that would not leave Drizzt's memory for a while.

A part of Drizzt wanted to throw his arms around him, though another part that had become stronger in the last five days held him back.

"I have to say your clerics know what the hells they're doing," Drizzt said.

"Now what have they told you," Jarlaxle said, putting his hands behind his head and lying back, his long, white hair pressing against his black skin and the gray pillow.

"Want to compare stories do we?" Drizzt said.

"Let's say if I have been declared dead I would appreciate being at least in on the announcement," Jarlaxle replied.

"Oh you're hardly dead. From what I've been told Mazn'reysla's spell took care of that little prick you gave yourself."

"A little prick cured by a little prick, how appropriate."

Drizzt gave a chuckle, hearing his companion making witty remarks again was another miraculous occasion.

"That was not the worst of your problems though," Drizzt continued, pausing and looking at Jarlaxle with a smile.

Jarlaxle sighed and nodded his head.

"You are asking me if I knew I had another problem besides Moril, or whatever the Hells he's called," Jarlaxle said. "The answer is I was not aware until I managed to get him out of my head for a second enough to look down at my own body, and that moment occurred while the two of us locked blades. It's not a condition I am unfamiliar with; I have been hired on many occasions to dispatch such individuals with the same condition as a mercy killing of sorts, or as a way to keep them from sharing information that Lolth apparently cursed them for in the first place."

"Lolth's curse, I assume, is when drow poison destroys a drow's body after centuries," Drizzt said.

"The mark of the subject is obvious," Jarlaxle said nodding his head. "Poisoned yellow rims the eyes and the Spider Queen brands her or him with spiders, indicating the final rejection. Among more educated and less fanatical circles, the condition is simply called liver failure. Now what have my esteemed clerics told you is my prognosis in that regard?"

"Your prognosis in that regard is you'll live," Drizzt said, sitting back in his chair. "A cure spell reversed the process and several regeneration spells later, it's almost like you have a new liver. I think we were all surprised to see you coherent this soon."

Jarlaxle smiled and managed to sit up slightly.

"Good, we have heard the same things," he said. "I have also heard I could be on my feet in a few days, possibly close to normal in another tenday; maybe more, maybe less."

"What then," Drizzt said, his expression casually grave.

"You tell me," Jarlaxle replied, though Drizzt could tell the question troubled him and he was trying his best to avoid it.

"Are you saying you plan to join us again? Your future rests with ours?"

"Can I assume you mean yourself and Master Artemis? You have allied yourself with such a motley crew as of late I don't know who you call companion and who you call meat shield."

Drizzt was tempted to ask him the same question, though under the circumstances it could wait. He was saving his battles for at least a few minutes, so he held his tongue.

"Myself and Master Artemis of course," Drizzt said. "As for the rest of them, they have crawled back under their respective rocks. The ranger and his pet elf took off a few hours after the hurly burley. The blackguard left a long sleep after that, his tiefling spawn in tow."

"What of your old halfling friend? Did he leave on his feet or in a bag?"

"He hasn't left at all actually; due to his own decision and not his own demise I assure you. Apparently he asked to stay and help with the clean-up."

Jarlaxle gave a dirty chuckle.

"Any idea why?" he asked. "Masochist? Thinks he can convert you? Thinks it's his goodly duty?"

It was now his turn to see Drizzt in an uncomfortable position; Drizzt shrugged, though a hard reasoning was etched in his grimace. He was at a complete loss for words.

"I can only speculate, though I'd like to think he sees it as repaying a debt," Drizzt said, old pain and vindictive pride oozing from his smirk.

Jarlaxle knew better than to press any further, but the meaning of that statement was obvious from all he knew if what happened with Drizzt.

"Though you are making it a point to tell me he is not dead, and I hear no boasting of flaying or even flogging him, physically at least," Jarlaxle said. "One would almost think you have tolerated his presence."

"I don't know if I'd say that," Drizzt said with a shrug. "He stays in one end of the cavern, I stay in another, our paths occasionally crossing. I've gotten a bit more used to him, maybe to the point of tolerating him."

"What of Artemis? What fun has he had torturing the little scamp?"

"Surprisingly none. He seems to tolerate him as well, which boggles my mind. I believe the world has gone mad."

"So will we have a halfling as part of part of our band now? He will have to have amazing tolerance himself."

"Regis leaves tonight," Drizzt said. "Most of the clean up is done, or at least our half of it; we have put rooms back together, rooted out nodes of taint, obliterated the rest of Moril's little pets scurrying around. Regis said he had business with his church in Waterdeep he has been offered full, legitimate transport to the city as a thank-you."

"Transport to the bottom of the Clawrift would be ungrateful, of course," Jarlaxle said with a smile, shifting his position in bed. "Where are you and Entreri scurrying off to now?"

"Cormanthor," Drizzt said, his grimace turning to a beaming grin. "We're tying up loose ends today and leaving tomorrow."

"Artemis as well?"

"He said something about needing a long stretch of quiet, though Baldur's Gate has come up quite a few times in conversation. I think he wants to take a breather in the woods before finishing off Bani Pilazi once and for all."

"Though I am curious about one thing," Jarlaxle said. "I assume you will be picking business back up with your fellows but what of the human? I heard a rumor he has joined Vhaeraun's flock as well; will he live his days as a masked brigand?"

"He's hardly signed up for the clergy, though is a bit more sympathetic to the cause," Drizzt said with a smile. "Some men learn they cannot live life by their swords and wits alone; recognizing the need for some higher inspiration and such is Artemis' case."

"Pretty words," Jarlaxle said with a stiff chuckle, hoping this wasn't going where it could. "Are they a statement or an offer? A threat perhaps?"

Drizzt gave a dirty cackle.

"Relax, converting isn't my thing," Drizzt said. "I typically wouldn't give a sweet shit who your soul belongs to; whether it's my god or not doesn't concern me one bit."

"Typically?" Jarlaxle said, his smile stiffening at Drizzt's tone.

"Now that you're back among the living, now that the dust has cleared, my concern relates to who you made a deal with to put yourself here," Drizzt said, leaning forward as his smile took more of a sneer.

"You and Entreri already asked me that same question under a truth serum and you had your answer, plus an audience with our employer," Jarlaxle said.

"Our former employer," Drizzt said, getting some pleasure out of the mildly crestfallen expression on his companion's face. "You knew he would never follow up on his offer."

"I can't say I'm surprised," Jarlaxle said, knowing he would have to face this reality sooner rather than later. "I will say I had a feeling we were all being used as bait as soon as the proverbial dung hit the proverbial wind on my side. I know both of you were thinking it so I might as well say it."

"You were indeed set up, Jarlaxle," Drizzt said, his expression dead serious. "Artemis looked through your possessions as a security measure; making sure there were no cursed items from Moril or Gromph that could cause us any more problems and consulting Ilzir for further analysis. I assume you knew about the silver collar, the disk with Gromph's seal, the black pendant you gave to the rest of us."

Jarlaxle shrugged, looking less annoyed and almost glad to have that information out of the way after the storm.

"Tools Gromph gave me against Moril," Jarlaxle said. "The silver collar was a neural disruptor to capture him; the seal would send messages back to Gromph, the amulets resisted enthantment."

"All useless for what we were dealing with; a necromancer not an enchanter," Drizzt said. "Ilzir's analysis confirmed all of the items you just named, though none of them were strong enough to do their jobs."

Drizzt didn't want to mention the seal did indeed trace to the archmage's office. Jarlaxle doubly didn't need to know Drizzt had dropped a little note telling the final story through the seal before Ilzir destroyed it; a rolled parchment with Moril's seal Jarlaxle used as a ruse map.

"You were given flashy decoys," Drizzt said, "he served you up to Moril on a proverbial silver platter, or was it a silver hook?"

"The latter, Gromph told me as much back in Saerloon," Jarlaxle said with a sigh. "He was trying to lure Moril into his net for whatever reason and Moril worked past the trap to run off with the bait."

"I remember you said he wanted to use Moril as a way to take control of House Baenre," Drizzt said. "Though the matter was a bit more complicated and you know that."

"I am still trying to wrap my mind around that," Jarlaxle said, laying back in bed and looking a bit more drained as the conversation progressed. "It's not as if the names Gromph and Vhaeraun have never been uttered in the same sentence. I don't know how Gromph was involved in House Mourbasin, or what ties he has to Vhaeraun; Moril wasn't exactly sharing that information. As for Moril's involvement with someone else, that has been clearer to me the more I have gotten my own brain back. And yes it did likely have to do with my condition other than Moril's little siphon."

"What of your father," Drizzt asked.

"No tears for his passing," Jarlaxle said with a wicked smile. "I am nothing but empathetic for the position he was put in with my mother, an all too common story. The sires of my younger siblings were destroyed just as horribly and the same is probably true for my elder siblings. As for everything else, I toast his demise."

Drizzt nodded, but saw Jarlaxle pause as if he had more to say.

"I also recall making a few comments about your sire, Moril diving into my brain to emotionally hamstring you," Jarlaxle said.

Drizzt shifted in his seat and gazed at Jarlaxle intently to show he was listening for more.

"Regardless, that was a raw version of my perspective with Moril's usual colorful comments," Jarlaxle continued. "I felt you had a right to know."

"I can't say it was shocking," Drizzt said. "The same thoughts occurred to me, though I only knew him through my own rosy glass; you probably saw him better."

"I do owe you a few tales, though I'll save them for fireside and not bedside," Jarlaxle said with a smile that grew with Drizzt's calm nod.

"Well Moril's gone, you live another day, what happens now," Drizzt said. "Or have you not thought that far yet?"

"In complete truth I'm lucky I'm laying here and talking instead of laying in pieces, especially when that small bit of psyche on which I held knew that would be the end and not this moment right here," Jarlaxle said, managing to pull himself up a bit more. His tone to Drizzt was clearly boastful, though there was a hint of quiet optimism in his voice. "I call that progress and I don't, as you say, give a sweet shit about the rest until I'm a bit more upright."

Drizzt smiled, leaning forward until he was nose to nose with Jarlaxle. The words made him happy, though he had his own words to add.

"Artemis and I still think we should kick your ass for all the horse shit you put us into," Drizzt hissed. "We waded through this mess for six days that felt more like two years, risked our skin and our souls to a madman and you were the one that put us there."

Jarlaxle's gaze stayed calm; at first thinking he was being ribbed, though Drizzt's increasingly intense tone told a different story.

"Though both of us agree that you have been punished enough for your arrogance," Drizzt continued, his smile now a sneer. "You are the one who will have to live with that now wherever you choose to go."

Jarlaxle nodded; his expression still calm, though Drizzt saw no smugness in that face.

"Though I do live," Jarlaxle said.

Drizzt smiled and stood up, patting Jarlaxle on the shoulder.

"And for that we are sincerely glad," he said, giving his friend a somber smile before walking toward the door.

---------

The eventual need to blink told Drizzt he needed to pry his eyes away for a moment; a difficult proposition indeed under the circumstances.

His hands found grips on the short bureau in his room at Matron Ilzir's townhouse and he supported his weight with his arms, feeling lightheaded for a moment before taking a few breaths to calm down.

If this were a trick or some sort of prank on Regis' part or anyone's part someone would have to hurt for it, though another side of Drizzt's brain half-expected this moment would come.

An ebony hand carefully reached forward and lightly touched the onyx figurine placed on the bureau, picking it up with no activated traps or bursts of magic. It was just the same as Drizzt had always remembered it.

His other hand picked up a piece of paper left below the figurine, recognizing Regis' neat handwriting.

_Drizzt,_

_Two years ago Stumpet found this figurine in your room in Icewind Dale with the saddest notes my eyes will ever read. I knew from that moment you were lost to me forever and a broken scimitar confirmed that fear. _

_The Drizzt Do'Urden beside whom I once traveled and spoke with for many hours is lost to me forever, but you aren't. You have found yourself, moved on with your life and for that you are far better than the rest of us. _

_Your life now is not a life I would have the stomach for; your creed, your morals, your companions, and many of your actions are not my cup of tea though it is not my place to judge what a man does with his life, especially after all he has been through._

_No words could ever fully express my regret for how I treated you, how Bruenor and Wulfgar treated you, how Icewind Dale treated you after Catti died. It weighs on my heart everyday, but I will sleep better knowing you are alive and I have done all I could do for the people you have called your own. My work over the past five days is hardly enough recompense, I know, but it is my way of trying to do what is right._

_I will go to Waterdeep to finish my duty to Tymora's church and then I will find my own life wherever it takes me. You have taught me there are many paths one can take and one person can truly adapt._

_I will leave you with an old friend who is dear to both of us, though she has been your longest traveling companion and is truly better served by your side. _

_Fare thee well, Drizzt Do'Urden, may the path before you be open and may your friends be true._

_With warmest love and wishes_

_Regis_

Drizzt stared at the letter for a while, reading the words repeatedly and letting them sink in. The sides of his mouth quirked into a smile, feeling a sense of vindication though relief ran deeper.

He stepped away from the bureau and held the figurine in his raised hand.

"Come, my shadow," he said, the words catching for a moment a light laugh.

Gray mist swirled around the figurine and the massive black form of Guenwhyvar materialized before him.

Guenwhyvar looked up at him with a feline version of a smile before nuzzling his leg with her nose.

Drizzt came to his knees, scratching behind her ears and rubbing his cheek against her soft fur.

"I'm so sorry, my friend," he said with a sob, pulling back and looking into her bright, green eyes. Those eyes looked back into his soul with love and not judgment. Drizzt's grin widened as he gave her a look of happy mischief. "Let's see how we can make up for lost time."

Author's Note: Next chapter, the conclusion of "The Lesser Evil: Hooligan's Holiday."


	30. Epilogue: The Schemes Go Ever On

The Lesser Evil: Hooligan's Holiday

**The Lesser Evil: Hooligan's Holiday**

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of R.A. Salvatore/Wizards of the Coast ©. I don't own them; I'm just examining all their possibilities.

**Epilogue: The Schemes Go Ever On**

_I have made it a point to avoid spilling any sentimental horse shit into my logs over the past year, though maybe the fact I have been inspired to do so again means I have finally gotten that proverbial grip on myself at last. That fact alone makes me a little more comfortable to spew out the drivel that will hit my page next, though maybe it is an honest response. Honest responses have been a theme as of late; all of us have been facing reality in its various forms._

_It is an honest response to describe the complete glee that raced through me the moment I stepped foot in Cormanthor for the first time since walking out with Artemis and Jarlaxle. It had been a tad over a tenday since we first left, though seeing the trees again made me feel as if it were just yesterday._

_The Rogue Prince walked into his realm to a hero's welcome of sorts, or just a welcome by those he hadn't seen in a while. I walked into the village, passers by doing their daily routine stopped and gave me the warmest welcome I have ever felt. Some cheered, some patted me on the back, some would pause and raise a water skin, others would just glance over and go back to what they were doing._

_The fact our humble village was still in tact was celebration enough. Xalryln said there were no incidents at all, had been one of the quietest tendays he had ever seen; though the term quiet is relative among this crowd. _

_Artemis too received a hearty welcome, an expected occurrence since he is as much the Rogue Knight to these people as I am the Rogue Prince. What did surprise me was the calm and somewhat happy expression on his face during it all when he usually regarded the Auzkovyn with casual indifference._

_I haven't spoken to him much at length about it, though I have my suspicions he was just as relieved to be back. I saw the tension melt from his face the moment Ilzir brought us through the portal a few miles from the village and I swore he smiled when approaching the familiar copse of trees._

_Back in House Mourbasin he spoke a few times about wanting some quiet time in the woods, though I have a feeling the quiet time he had in mind was less akin to a small pause and more like an extended retreat from the civilized world whether he thought it that way or not. _

_It has been a little over two tendays since we returned to Cormanthor and Artemis has blended right in with the rest of the village. Now it is as if plans for leaving are a fleeting thought. An odd change, yes but one I understand._

_He has spent a bit of time honing the ranger skills he has, taking advantage of a forest environment. I know he has met with Mazn'reysla a few times in private and I have a feeling it is due to the new talent he picked up after his death and return. Even if he is just discussing spirit with the cleric over drinks, it represents yet another change in him._

_Artemis Entreri has seen so much in the past month that shoved his existence in his face. He would take this experience and use it as a weapon in the past, though now he has used it as a tool to better understand himself. Maybe his stay with Jarlaxle or even my stay with them both has opened his eyes a bit; struck him at a deeper level and finally made him want a fuller existence._

_Since we first met, my own morality has matched his on whatever level, though even with the death of the self-righteous son of a bitch I once was I still saw his existence as empty. Maybe the little "holiday" we went on, from his death in Bani Pilazi's guildhouse to the moment he destroyed Moril, made him face that. _

_He is still ever the assassin from when I first locked swords with him, though he is more a man with a purpose now. _

_The fact he has spoken more of Baldur's Gate in the past tenday shows me he is planning for his future, desiring to get some unfinished business out of the way. I have a bizarre feeling he may have a plan much grander than anything he would tell me._

_I am sure Jarlaxle is also facing the reality of his own situation. Less than two tendays after Moril was purged from his body, he is near fully recovered. He has since left the care of House Mourbasin, though neither Artemis nor I have seen much of him in the tenday since. He did some to Cormanthor once to train. His muscles did not atrophy from his illness thanks to Moril's meddling, though he needs a touch more training to further get his reflexes in order._

_I have a feeling he is wrapping up a few matters in Menzoberranzan, though I doubt it is his intention to return permanently if ever again. Any whispers he was out of Lolth's favor would have serious consequences to his business reputation if he didn't have a price on his head already. _

_Jarlaxle has said repeatedly he wants to join us again; what adventures or business we have next is up to fate and all our usual schemes. _

_I stick to my word that I am not a recruiter, though I do believe he will have to face his soul sooner rather than later. He cannot use half-hearted loyalties to Lolth as a crutch any more and being a second away from death I do believe gave him some pause, especially given where Entreri went during his own trip to the other side._

_I would of course say Jarlaxle too should have a talk with Mazn'reysla, though that is purely his decision._

_The fact I have actually given any thought to Regis that did not involve spilling his blood shows at least to me that my temper has cooled since seeing him in Saerloon that first time. I cannot help but smile thinking on him now…thinking on all the times he squirmed or cowered in the face of that too terrible for his little mind to handle. _

_I do feel a significant validation after spending the time I did with him; he left us humbled nearly two years after I left him scowling. Could I now forgive him? I have given that some casual thought. I am not too concerned he will run to Bruenor and tell him how much more of a pleasant individual I am now; his last words about Bruenor were both scathing and hopeless. _

_If anyone from Mithral Hall or Silverymoon do come after me I pity them already._

_There has been one reunion that makes my heart leap every day; I have Guenwhyvar back and believe she has the same thought of me._

_I will never use her against my own enemies in rage; it is a promise I made once when I was a different man and I will ever keep. _

_Guenwhyvar has returned to my side as traveling companion and I praise every new moment I have with her. It feels as if I have a part of my soul back. As I have walked beside her in the forest. _

_Mazn'reysla has been able to speak with her as she is an astral animal and he learned the forest of Cormanthor was her original home. When the leaves fall and matters are further settled around the village I will allow her to lead me to her first home in the forest._

_I believe she is truly happy here. Interestingly enough she and Azril can tolerate each other's presence; or at least Azril can climb on top of her and scratch into Guen's fur like she is the queen of the mountain. Guen will simply purr happily, glad for such a nice back scratch._

_This is peace at last for me. I feel as if I have put to bed many past demons that haunted me too long. Not all is perfect, of course, but then what is life without a few challenges._

_Bring them all on, I say. I have gone through another stage of evolution and am ready for the world._

----------

A silver disk plummeted through the shadows, flipping over to reveal an emblem that would be forever etched into Drizzt's memory: a white clown face, one side of the mouth in a grimace with the other in a smirk and diamonds for eyes.

His vision shifted upwards to the edges of a black bowl and the purple-lined black robes encasing the ebony arm that tossed Moril's symbol. Drizzt's perspective floated to the side, getting better look at the robed figure standing before what clearly looked to be an onyx bowl for offerings to Vhaeraun.

Drizzt was now aware of his legs enough to take a step back, though it still felt like floating; his eyes never left the familiar wizard in front of him though Gromph Baenre seemed to have no knowledge of his presence. Drizzt knew this worked to his advantage, but if only Gromph could see the cruel grin that had formed across his face.

Gromph noticed nothing, standing before the black bowl in what looked like a small, unadorned chamber in some tucked away cavern; his face in its usual seriousness, though tinged with some deep irritation if not nervousness.

"My sacrifice is complete, Masked Lord," Gromph said in a steady tone.

Shadows billowed from the bowl and Drizzt knew he saw a pair of red eyes through the blackness.

"Indeed," a familiar, oily voice said through the shadows, though Vhaeraun hardly sounded boasting or even satisfied.

The billowing shadows grew, taking a humanoid form. The blackness separated in a puff of astral wind, Vhaeraun's avatar form stepping out before the archmage; his hair and eyes glowing bright red, a factor that widened Drizzt's grin.

Gromph remained stone-faced, though the corner of his mouth twitched slightly, showing this was an unexpected development.

"I take it you are before me now victorious," Vhaeraun said. "I recall a time in not to far past when you were on your knees before my altar, asking for a deal when Lolth's servants re-took Menzoberranzan."

"Those were chaotic times," Gromph said, looking almost irritated with the mention, "and I come before you now in victory. Nazir Klau'Thest, the one who called himself Moril, is dead."

"By the hands of those you employed," Vhaeraun said with a nod.

Gromph nodded in response, his own grimace lightening to a smirk.

"I did as you asked, I sacrificed your enemy using every means at my disposal," Gromph said. "I consider my task fulfilled."

Vhaeraun gave a chilling snicker, hair and eyes remaining red.

"Bravo, you dispatched a dangerous and unpredictable quarry over which you had no means of control whatsoever," Vhaeraun said, taking a step forward. "That could be called a victory, or it could just be called dumb luck; or at least putting some competent hunters in the right place at the right time and relying on their wits to save your ass. You are truly fortunate the circumstances worked out as they did or else you would not look too good."

"By any means at my disposal, Masked Lord," Gromph said, his tone a bit more strained. "That was our bargain."

"Though whether you actually meant to fulfill that bargain is another matter entirely," Vhaeraun said, leaning closer to Gromph's face.

Gromph gave a small sneer to communicate he was still the one in control.

"I specifically asked you to get me Moril," Vhaeraun whispered, his nose an inch from the archmage's. "And you do that by baiting him with the drow whose mere existence made him go completely mad. I would say good work for that if Moril was not a storied genius of sympathetic magic who could gain control of any of his children simply by being a few feet away from them. Your bait was genius but your trap was beyond weak and you knew that. And you did not only hand him his son, you handed him a son that was not only dying but extremely susceptible to divine magic. Jarlaxle was his property the moment he was in his presence."

"An unfortunate error on my part," Gromph said, his voice still steady. "Had I known he was ill, I would never have let him set a foot forward on that mission. Moril's powers in sympathetic magic, while strong, still required more effort to control his offspring than merely being a foot from them. I have seen this; he needed a lock of hair from his two daughters and an extended ritual before he could curse them with horrid deformity."

"Ah yes, from his ancient history as a Baenre breeder," Vhaeraun said, taking a step back. "Back around four hundred years ago when he would prevent any of his daughters from rising too high in the ranks by cursing them; his little affront to Lolth. Now flash ahead four hundred years, add considerable knowledge and experimentation, and have my mother help him along a bit. Don't ever count me as a fool, elderboy; I see all. I know better than to think you were fool enough not to see the obvious, quite the opposite actually. You knew exactly what you were doing."

"In the off chance Jarlaxle was the intended sacrifice, what value to you place on him anyway," Gromph said, keeping his cool through Drizzt saw a small glean of sweat behind his ears. "You bear no love for Jarlaxle anyway, told me yourself he was expendable."

Vhaeraun took a step forward, now circling Gromph with the same unamused smile. Gromph remained still though Drizzt saw his muscles tighten.

"Never take me for my mother, elderboy," Vhaeraun hissed in his ear, keeping a stance behind him. "I do not accept substitutions. If Jarlaxle did die or remain permanently possessed, I would consider that a sacrifice but not to me. As I said, pure dumb luck."

Gromph scowled, though Drizzt did see one flinch as Vhaeraun burst into laughter and walked in front of him, considerably backing off.

"But why obsess over the 'what ifs,'" Vhaeraun said, hair and eyes turning gold. "Moril is dead, Jarlaxle is near fully recovered, and House Mourbasin is already back in operation thanks to your employment of such able warriors." Vhaeraun leaned forward to give Gromph a stiff pat on the shoulder.

Gromph politely bowed.

"Then my part of the bargain is fulfilled," Gromph said.

"Hardly," Vhaeraun immediately replied.

The poisonous scowl that flashed across Gromph's face made Drizzt's heart leap with glee.

"Moril is dead," Gromph said.

"By the hands of my champions, your brother, and the champions of two other gods," Vhaeraun said, a self-satisfied smirk forming over his face. "You merely pointed Jarlaxle toward Moril and ended your association with his company midway through the mission. As far as I'm concerned you are detached from them."

Gromph rolled his eyes, understanding Vhaeraun's meaning.

"If you should happen to re-associate yourself with them, I will consider our bargain fulfilled," Vhaeraun continued. "It had better be a sizable re-association, mind you, and divided evenly among the three."

"A simple task on my part," Gromph said.

"It is all I ask," Vhaeraun said. "We are at war, archmage' I need many able soldiers in my ranks. Though great things are already happening; I have made my alliances well and I can assure you Lolth's tyranny is drawing to a close."

"I will have the throne of House Baenre," Gromph said. "Such was our deal."

"You will have Menzoberranzan if you cooperate," Vhaeraun said with a grin. "I have chosen my rulers wisely."

Vhaeraun's gaze drifted from Gromph and aimed right in Drizzt's eyes. Drizzt smiled, managing a bow through the dense haze surrounding him.

Vhaeraun winked, though his smile suddenly soured. Drizzt felt a set of slender hands on his shoulders, massaging his muscles. He smiled curiously, thinking maybe Hallia or Mazn'reysla had joined him wherever he was.

Drizzt looked down to see the smooth ebony hands on his shoulders; a mass of tiny spiders spiraling through her fingers and bursting on Drizzt's shoulders before dissipating.

He slowly turned his head back to get a better view of whoever was behind him.

A pair of glowing red eyes met his, black mouth in a cruel grin. White hair cascaded down her shoulders as millions of tiny spiders ran a path through the waves of hair.

She was not a woman Drizzt knew personally, though her identity was obvious. He could feel the waves of dread energy wafting off her; chaos and evil incarnate.

Lolth, the mother of all drow, gently caressed his shoulder while giving him a coy smile that poured with cruelty.

"Congratulations, champion," Lolth said, spiders bursting from her lips. "My son has chosen wisely. I will certainly be keeping my eye on you."

A shrill cackle burst from her mouth with a mass of spiders and darkness.

Drizzt gave a scream, jumping up and watching his leather-bound journal fly across the floor of his tree house.

His breath came in heaving gasps, enough to calm him down and make him realize he was standing in his house in Cormanthor in his sleep pants. A breeze blew in from the open doorway as did the smell of rain.

Drizzt took a few deep breaths, managing to pry his feet from the floor and pick up his open journal, knowing he must have gone into Reverie while writing.

He looked down to the open page, trying to steady his mind from his bizarre dream.

_Bring them all on, I say. I have gone through another stage of evolution and am ready for the world._

Drizzt smiled at the words, a chuckle escaping his throat.

--------

"The great Artemis Entreri," Bani Pilazi said, pulling his fragile frame up in his plush, almost throne-like chair.

His cloudy gaze fell on the assassin who suddenly appeared in his chambers, though his wrinkled face and long moustache curled in a grotesque smile.

Entreri leaned against the door frame with a stiff smile and a nod of recognition before approaching the old man's chair.

"A thug's spell and a ruffian's blade could not touch the great Artemis Entreri," Pilazi said. "I had no doubt that you still lived. And I see I was right; barely a scar on your flesh of raw hide while your attackers died horrible deaths."

"Pleased or disappointed," Entreri said, plopping into another plush chair across from the guild master, his untied black hair falling over his shoulders as he stretched both arms across the back of the blue and gold upholstered chair.

"Validated," Pilazi said. "I knew that ridiculous order on your head from my idiot son was a fantasy."

"But little Jordani was taken by his own fantasies up until death," Entreri said.

Bani furrowed his thick, white brows in amazement, though Entreri only saw mild surprise and not parental rage.

"He's dead?" Bani said.

"I saw him in a back alley in Saerloon stabbing an associate of mine in the back; I could only return the favor," Entreri said. "I believe they spread his ashes over Saerloon. If you're lucky, you might find a few bits still piled in the street."

Pilazi gave a dirty chuckle that rose to a cackle.

"I mourn your associate more than him," Pilazi said, picking up a goblet of some steaming amber liquid and taking a sip.

"Oh my friend is alive and fully healed," Entreri said, "managed a few of his own stabs into little Jordani."

"I'll drink to that," Bani said, taking a long sip of the liquor whose mere smell stung Entreri's nose from a few feet away. "Jordani; such an idiot. Complete thorn in my arse. He could have been a master thief, though wasted his efforts. Good riddance I say.

"Good riddance indeed," Entreri replied, casually reclining in the chair yet his eyes did a casual sweep of the room. As expected, no guards or servants lingered around.

"Now it has been nearly a month since you left my fabulous guild," Pilazi said, putting his glass down on the table beside him and wiping his moustache with the back of the voluminous red sleeve on his robe. "Artemis Entreri has not forgotten us, though what is his purpose for returning, I wonder? It's not like he has a place in this guild any more; it's not like he is the star assassin."

"You have a new assassin," Entreri said, feigning curiosity though he already knew the answer.

"Rajan Fores, a Thayan spell sword," Pilazi said, puffing his chest out in pride. "He has been my protégé, my prize; so much more youthful and cruel than you could ever be."

"So I have heard," Entreri said, noting how Pilazi's gaze shifted to the back of the room.

Entreri took a casual look back then looked at Pilazi, noting a puzzled expression on his face before he straightened his visage to the smarm he showed before.

"The Red Wizards banished him from Thay because they feared him so," Pilazi said, looking to the back of the room again.

Entreri smiled politely in response. "He sounds like a fearsome creature indeed, though I could care less about taking his position."

"Naturally," Pilazi said, taking a breath and reclining back in his plush chair. "So many other ambitions and schemes brought Artemis Entreri crawling back. If you are here to kill me, I will warn you I am well protected."

"Killing you is not my intention at all, pasha," Entreri said. "Nor is kissing your feet. I took a little holiday after last leaving the guild, allowing for some time for the poison to clear the air and giving myself a much needed break from the usual intrigues. I am now refreshed and inspired to further my craft however I may. I come to you now with some new ideas from foreign lands which I am sure might intrigue you."

"You are seeking a new position in the guild," Pilazi said, twirling the end of his moustache around his finger.

"You could use some new insight," Entreri said. "I have been watching this guild closely over the last few days and you have to agree, my pasha, much has stagnated."

"You have been watching the guild," Pilazi said with a hint of annoyance.

"Very closely," Entreri said. "Your rogues have been most helpful; expressing their opinions, telling me of a few botched operations, a few holes in security. Your guild, my pasha, is in sad shape and I believe you could use some assistance."

"Assistance, ha," Pilazi said, making like he was placing his hand on the arm of his chair though Entreri clearly saw him press his finger in one area to likely call his guards since his prized new assassin never showed. "You want to take over my guild. That is why you have come. Well I will never surrender power to a thug like you, Artemis Entreri."

The old man's gaze fell to the sides of the room, trying to keep calm yet looking rather unnerved at something. Entreri kept his expression calm.

"Relax, Bani, those are your words, not mine," Entreri said. "My intention was not to insult your leadership but to point out that you could benefit from my skills, become an even more powerful master through my aid."

Pilazi calmed slightly, stroking the thick stubble on his chin.

"Fair enough, you make an interesting proposal, Artemis," Pilazi said, though Entreri wasn't buying it.

Two sharp knocks came from a side door.

"Ah, my lunch arrives," Pilazi said, yelling a command in Alzhedo for whoever was knocking to enter.

The door opened and a short figure bundled in Calishite robes and head wraps entered the room, giving a nervous bow with a silver covered tray in hand. Pilazi gave another command in Alzhedo while motioning for the server to come forth.

"Your offer intrigues me, Artemis," Pilazi said, watching the servant place the tray on the table in front of him. "Return to me this evening and we can discuss more."

Entreri rose from his seat and bowed.

The server lifted the silver dome on the tray, causing Pilazi's smug expression to blanch in horror.

A bed of lettuce and gobs of tabouli lined the bottom of the tray around a man's severed head. Strawberry slices were lined around the crown of his bald head as a pear was stuck in his mouth. Four severed human hands were arranged in a square around the head, each upturned palm bearing either olives or balls of cheese.

Entreri grimaced, giving an irritated look at the server and seeing a lavender eye wink at him through the head wrap. The assassin rolled his eyes, and looked down at Pilazi, who was sputtering in rage.

"Oh look, it's the great Rajan Fores," Entreri said, looking at the head. "And I believe those hands once belonged to the two guards waiting for your call. Well that would explain why no one arrived when you expected them. What a pity indeed."

Pilazi looked at the server, seeing black flesh around a pair of strange purple eyes.

The guildmaster's face suddenly relaxed as a dagger pierced up through the back of his head from the top of his neck. A trickle of blood ran down his ear as Entreri withdrew his dagger, supporting his victim's falling weight and positioning him back to a sit in the chair.

Entreri passed a hand down Pilazi's face, closing his eyes and letting him slump forward as if he was sleeping.

Drizzt and Entreri nodded at each other, walking away from the scene and out the side door to the back staircase.

----------

"Were the garnishes really necessary," Entreri said, leaning against a black tapestry in the temple below the guildhouse.

"You wanted a presentation to inspire hopelessness," Drizzt said, stretching his legs out on one of the velvet benches that lined temple of Mask, a popular location for the schemers of Baldur's Gate to meet in secret.

Few who went to the temple knew of another tucked away chamber dedicated to Mask's ally Vhaeraun, which was a haven for the modest population of drow thieves in the city; a chapel Mazn'reysla helped expand from a small offering bowl to a whole other section of the temple.

Drizzt and Entreri made a casual, yet quiet retreat to the location a tunnel away from the Pilazi guildhouse; or what would remain the Pilazi guildhouse until the name of the recently deceased Bani Pilazi was forgotten.

Given the fractured organization of the guild and the general hatred of the guildmaster, Entreri knew that would not be a long time at all. "Guildmaster" was a relative term anyway in this particular organization; Pilazi held the guild in name only and allowed a mass of what he saw as sycophants run the operations. The ever rotating base of sycophants, however, were the true leaders of the guild and Pilazi had no clue his own guild was out of his hands.

Entreri once held that distinction, though not any more; this time the guild would be his. He had lurked around for just a few days; spreading word he was back in Baldur's Gate and had interest in the business. No one, however, seemed to care; the turnover of rogues was so high no one reported to anyone. It was easy for Entreri to float among the ranks with casual conversation in most cases and good old fashioned intimidation in others to communicate he would achieve some measure of power soon.

For the first time in decades there was one unifying force in the Pilazi guild; Bani Pilazi would die any time and Artemis Entreri would take a lead position.

Declaring himself guildmaster would have been too bold a move, though the term guildmaster was relative now. Entreri thoroughly examined the ranks to see who needed to be weeded out, though Rajan Fores, the Thayan assassin, was the only one who seemed to gain anything from Pilazi being in power and Do'Urden took care of him with ease. The rest either couldn't care less or didn't even know there was a Bani Pilazi. The majority of the guild was freelance rogues anyway who could not have cared for actual power.

It was a perfect position for Entreri; he could push his power further and try to rope the guild into order or he could keep an eye on the operations and direct when necessary while keeping a few steps back to pursue any other projects. What any of those projects were would have to present themselves in time.

"I asked you to cleanly present the hands and the head to get the message across," Entreri said. "Instead you had to get artistic, potentially wasting the precious time I had to execute my plan and creating more of a risk you would be spotted and hence giving away the surprise."

"Relax," Drizzt said. "Pilazi had his own side kitchen and I had to deactivate a few traps to get into it. The man was very paranoid about his food and you should have seen the amount of drugs piled up in there; bricks of Thayan red weed, a large sackful of mind dust and who the Hells knows what else. It was a little too much of a secluded spot for selling the shit."

Entreri nodded, relatively satisfied with the answer.

"Besides, it would have been more barbaric to just slap a few severed human body parts under there," Drizzt continued. "It's all about presentation, Artemis. There's an art to this. You get on my ass about a messy kill yet will present severed body parts as a scare tactic; it's a tad bit hypocritical don't you think?"

"I could argue this philosophy with you for hours, Do'Urden," Entreri said putting a hand up, "though right now I completely lack the patience. If I am never able to see olives the same way again, I will have you to thank for it."

"You are very welcome," Drizzt said with a smart grin. "Besides, all worked according to plan anyway; right now Pilazi's real server has likely walked in to find his corpse and the word will have fully spread by the end of the day."

"Just heard a few passing rogues toasting his death as you speak," Mazn'reysla's voice said from behind the door to the chapel.

Drizzt and Entreri looked forward to see the priest in his full black clerical garb walking into the room.

"You just need to step beside the guildhouse for a second to hear a few jokes about baked Thayan headcheese," Maz said.

Drizzt gave Entreri a smug smile that brought a profound eye roll.

"Any whispers of who did it," Entreri asked.

"You have been firmly credited," Maz said, "in fact I think I heard a few toasts in your honor as well."

Entreri nodded, knowing the priest's word was nigh worthless though would give him a basis. If he walked through the guild a respected man, the priest was telling the truth; if he had a price on his head there were creative ways Mazn'reysla could be made to pay for his lie.

"So this is an unexpected pleasure," Drizzt said, coming to a sit on against the inlayed wood back of the bench. "Are you gracing us with your presence for business or pleasure, or business before pleasure?"

"Strictly business for now, pleasure tomorrow," Maz said with a wink to Drizzt. "I bear news from our old friends at Castle Wenthias." He produced a rolled parchment from his cape and focused his unnerving gaze on Entreri. "I believe you are not the only one who took care of some unfinished business upon returning."

He handed the parchment to Entreri, who unfurled the scroll and read the print. He finished with a profound blink while passing it to Drizzt.

Drizzt unrolled the parchment and read the neat flowing text.

_To the friends of shadows,_

_I bear news from the Wenthias family that will have an effect on our relations._

_DuMare, Earl Wenthias, my beloved uncle, died suddenly at his manor just a tenday after our mutual enemy Moril was delivered to oblivion._

_As endowed by my uncle in his will and testament, I will take the title of earl and command of the Wenthias family's lands and holdings. _

_Business will continue under my lordship and prosper. My uncle taught me well the principals of Bane; I will rule and protect these lands with a firm hand, though will maintain more diplomacy between my house and the children of Vhaeraun than has been shown in the past._

_Both our peoples reside in these woods and must demonstrate our power to the slaves of righteousness that would try to usurp us. My uncle did not see the truth by which I abide; the servants of Bane and the servants of Vhaeraun who call Cormanthor our home have more to gain through collaboration than through division._

_I will call a meeting between myself and the drow leaders of Cormanthor as both an introduction and an opportunity to share ideas and band together. I will deliver a time and location shortly._

_These is a new era and may it prosper,_

_Darkness to you_

_Gherbod, 2__nd__ Earl Wenthias_

"Fantastic," Drizzt said with a heaving sigh, handing the parchment back to Mazn'reysla.

"Died suddenly," Entreri said, "the meaning of that isn't obvious at all."

"The rumor spreading around Zhent territory is Fzoul Chembryl has an appearance in Cormanthor scheduled within the tenday to debrief a powerful blackguard. The meaning behind that should be obvious as well."

"The Chosen Tyrant will be gracing us with his presence," Drizzt said, rubbing his temples with his hand at the far from pleasant news.

"A diplomatic appearance or a trap?" Entreri asked.

"A diplomatic appearance I am sure," Maz said.

"He has nothing to gain from killing or cursing any of us at the present," Drizzt said. "He has too many interests in Cormanthor and negotiating with us, or at least exploiting us, is too much to his advantage."

Drizzt looked at Mazn'reysla, Vhaeraun's words to Gromph suddenly piercing through his brain.

"I have made my alliances well," the Masked Lord said; the same god who allegedly had an alliance with Bane at some point in history.

Mazn'resyla merely gave his usual smile, almost reading Drizzt's mind. Entreri saw the exchange and cocked an eyebrow, knowing someone would be explaining something to him later.

"It's not as if the Zhents find any of you to be threats," Maz said. "The church of Bane has already claimed credit for Moril's death."

"Surprise," Entreri said.

"Though the final story depends on the teller apparently; the goodly churches are heaping honors upon the church of Tymora for their victory against the Clown Cultist," Maz said.

Drizzt gave a dirty snicker that Entreri suspected had less to do with sarcasm and more to do with something else he had suspected for the past few days; the tone was too sharp, too vindictive.

"While the churches of Torm and Selune mourn their dead I would suspect," Entreri said.

"Torm's church, yes, though some servants of Selune's more pleasant sister are whispering that Vasha Millian was resurrected soon after her death," Maz said. "Selune's champion is supposedly bitter at her church for sending her to a fool's cause; being snatched up by a dragon-riding paladin and skewered on a mast only strengthened her bitterness. It is a very easy peace of propaganda for Shar's cause; one conveniently shared secret."

"Speaking of Shar, I'm still a little fuzzy on what her involvement was in that mess besides giving hospitality," Entreri said. "Or is that yet another one of her sacred secrets?"

"That is the story told by Shar's church, though I think the answer is simpler," Maz said. "All parties involved fought a battle based on or motivated by their losses to Moril while Moril was himself a creature of sorrow."

"She just sat back and enjoyed the show," Drizzt said. "Now back to the matter at hand; who else received this message?"

"The usual circles," Maz said. "I have spoken with different parties around Cormanthor to coordinate. Jezz is expected of course as are you. The Auzkovyn will send three representatives."

"Three representatives," Drizzt said. "Including me, that will make four representatives; I suppose our clan wants to cover its respective ass."

"Actually the other Auzkovyn leaders wanted three of their own representatives," Maz said. "There is a growing sentiment that you represent a third party."

Drizzt sat up a bit more with a stiff smirk. All the implications of that statement made his head hurt. It could have been a blessing or a curse; another statement from Vhaeraun pounding through his brain, "I have chosen my rulers wisely."

Drizzt manage a sudden chuckle, dealing with the present and not focusing on the possible right now.

"We will indeed be well represented," he said, glancing at Entreri, who returned his chuckle while the look in his black eyes noted his clear discomfort.

"More information will be forthcoming, though I must away to Cormanthor," Maz said. "By the way, I crossed paths with another champion yesterday."

"The ranger of the land of asshole," Entreri said with a small groan.

"Fielder sends his greetings," Maz said. "He is lurking around as usual, said he is available if we need him. Apparently Linuin is gone from the forest."

"Arvandor by way of a wooden spike?" Drizzt said.

"Evereska by way of teleporting," Maz said. "Fielder said he left while sputtering about all the filthy drow and humans he had to deal with. Regardless, I have a group of drow I would love to deal with. I should be back in a few days."

Drizzt blew a kiss which Maz returned with a wink.

"Speaking of happy forest folk, try to get some of Miss Biddy's freshly made pies and bring them back with you," Drizzt said. "There's a certain kinsman of hers who would just adore them."

Maz gave a maniacal grin, the last image of him seen as he tapped himself with a teleportation wand and was back in Cormanthor.

Entreri gave Drizzt a dirty look, communicating he knew exactly who Drizzt was talking about.

"He will only be here on a freelance basis," Drizzt said. "Just doing the usual thief jobs."

Entreri's scowl crawled to a smile.

"Speaking of employment, guess who will return to the guild house today," Entreri said.

Drizzt smiled and gave a hearty laugh.

"Good, maybe we'll have some sense of normality," Drizzt said, his eyes widening with a realization. "He will go back to his old position as…"

Entreri merely smiled.

---------

"You know, Kimmuriel, the last time you brought me any messages from Gromph the results were rather unpleasant," Jarlaxle said, crossing his arms and leaning further against the tunnel wall.

"This time he has no desire to see you in person," Kimmuriel said.

The Oblodran still gave an internal head shake, thinking he would never be accustomed to the sight of Jarlaxle with a full head of long hair. He had kept his trademark purple hat, though a few tufts of his thick, white hair stuck out from under the brim as a single thick braid cascaded down his back.

He also wasn't wearing his favored eyepatch, leaving both red eyes exposed and shining with malicious excitement. Just the fact Jarlaxle was in front of him was surprising enough considering the stories he had heard.

"Ah, so he acts through an intermediary, cannot say I'm surprised," Jarlaxle said. "I'm sure I am the last creature he wants to see right now considering our last rather catastrophic meeting."

Kimmuriel was usually stone faced, though Jarlaxle saw no hint of confusion or curiosity. Judging by his facial expression, the news was hardly a surprise and likely a juicy piece of gossip Jarlaxle hung from the end of. Jarlaxle expected as much.

"He sent me to give you what he called 'back payments,'" Kimmuriel said, reaching into his robes and producing a thick velvet bag that barely fit his hand. "Though I do believe the term 'severance' was also used. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I believe Gromph has little interest in your services."

Jarlaxle chuckled, seeing the same shadow of smugness across Kimmuriel's face. He was tempted to ask if anyone else in Menzoberranzan had slipped a similar message, whether it came with treasure or the promise of a dagger if he dared show his face in the city again.

He had spent a few days in Menzoberranzan shortly after leaving the care of House Mourbasin, keeping a low profile and listening for rumors among the priestesses or Bregan D'aerthe. As predicted, the term "out of favor" was attached to his name a few times; once Lolth chose a target, surviving only guaranteed blacklisting if not a price on one's head.

Jarlaxle could have mustered enough power to regain his reputation with at least the uppity male element, though it was barely worth trying in his mind. Life could have been made very difficult for him in this land where he would be scrutinized by a population who prided themselves on figuring out the best ways to bring pain and torment to people they weren't overly fond of.

That and his heart just wasn't into the constant struggle anymore.

He looked at the sack in Kimmuriel's slender hand before snatching it up and being pleasantly surprised when no traps went off. He carefully untied the string wrapped around the bag and looked inside.

"My, my," he said, his voice in almost a happy gasp at what he saw. "Gromph shows his generous side indeed.

He casually retied the bag and put it in a large belt-pouch with a magic disrupting enchantment, disabling any lingering traps that may have been contained in such a generous reward.

"Gromph also told me to tell you the treasure must be split equally with your companions on your last mission," Kimmuriel said.

"And you tell the archmage that he has my word," Jarlaxle said, enjoying Kimmuriel's noncommittal tone a little too much.

An awkward silence fell over the two, both looking at each other trying to find the best words. At last Jarlaxle gave a dramatic sigh.

"This is a farewell on my part as well," Jarlaxle said. "I will not return to Menzoberranzan."

Kimmuriel's face again betrayed not one hint of surprise.

"So it is official," the Obladran said. "Several hundred years of schemes in Menzoberranzan then a decade of schemes on the surface; I see you have chosen a more profitable location."

Or less hostile, Jarlaxle thought, though the words never left his lips. Judging from Kimmuriel's slight smirk, he didn't need to say anything.

"So does Jarlaxle move from one grand scheme to another," Kimmuriel said.

"No, not one grand scheme," Jarlaxle said with a laugh. "I plan to sow a many little schemes and see which one grows the largest. This is not my farewell to you; I certainly hope I can count you at least as a source, perhaps a gossiper on the latest Menzoberranzyr intrigues."

"Naturally," Kimmuriel said. "Since when would I ever think I could be freed of the great Jarlaxle?"

Jarlaxle removed his hat and did a sweeping bow, Kimmuriel looking on with a raised eyebrow.

"In that case fare the well, friend," Jarlaxle said. "This is not a goodbye, this is an 'until next time.'"

Kimmuriel merely bowed. A flash of light later he was in Menzoberranzan.

Jarlaxle gave a lingering look at the spot where Kimmuriel had once stood, a small remainder of his frayed nerve twitching again though the rest of him remaining perfectly calm.

This whole meeting had been the final farewell to Menzoberranzan, to his whole life up to that point, to everything he had worked for and against. The decision was not entirely by his choosing either, another factor that grated on him. The past several years on the Surface had been his own choice and the fleeting plans to leave Menzoberranzan behind him once and for all was yet another scheme.

Now he was an outcast in a city where he had spent centuries as one of its most truly powerful citizens. He was undone by the schemes of others after spending what felt like an eternity weaving his own schemes for others to fall into.

The thought did carry a small amount of sadness, though carried an infinite number of possibilities as well. No matter how much he prospered on the Surface, the waiting spider of Menzoberranzan would always hide in the blind spots of his perspective; ready to spring back on him and drag him back down the hole at any moment.

The reality was still there, though more distant; Jarlaxle was now a memory on the cusp of anyone's mind. If there were any other plots spinning around him, he would not dwell on the possible at the moment.

The fact he was still alive, let alone nearly at full health, was enough of an overall motivator.

Jarlaxle sneered in the direction where Kimmuriel left, taking a step down the corridor with a dramatic huff. He reached a small rock outcropping and pushed it in. A wave of light washed over him and a moment later he was in a hall covered in human-hewn brick and not drow-hewn stone.

His neckpurse took on a sudden warmth, causing him to reach in and pull out the Do'Urden House insignia; the warmth indicating its brother insignia was a few feet away.

Jarlaxle walked down the hallway and saw a door he knew lead to the city's church of Mask, temple that was also a haven to Vhaeraun worshippers as well. Jarlaxle smiled, figuring Drizzt and Entreri were both here taking care of some business; maybe they were using this as a gather point after slaying Bani Pilazi as Entreri had hinted for the past tenday he would do at last.

Jarlaxle looked around and approached the door. He had seen the special knock to get in and figured it was a nice, out of the way place to present his two other companions with their just reward from Gromph, perhaps have it analyzed if they were suspicious enough.

His hand went up briefly, though stayed at his side. There was always the possibility Drizzt and Entreri had failed their attempt against Pilazi and Pilazi had sent his goons down here as a decoy; waiting for the third member of the party to receive a signal and jump on him the second he walked in the door.

Jarlaxle knew it was ridiculous thought the second he crossed his mind, though he still stood at the door. He had been in temples of Vhaeraun for business purposes before, though for some reason he could not bear the thought of crossing the threshold into this one.

He knew he should enter lest he should witness his two companions scheming against him, though that reason did not make him knock either.

Maybe he had spent so much time with Vhaeraun's flock in House Mourbasin that he was tired of dealing with them…or maybe he was more intrigued by them then he cared to admit. Maybe he desired desperately to enter, though stayed outside for fear yet another higher force would claim him again…or maybe this would be protection from that possibility.

Jarlaxle spun on his heel and walked a few steps down the corridor. He would give the reward to his companions back in the guildhouse. He did give one lingering glance back, swearing he saw the shadows around the door curling over each other. For a moment they almost took the shape of a mask with glowing green eyes.

The door opened, dissipating any shadow shapes in Jarlaxle's perception as Drizzt and Entreri walked out.

"Speak the devil's name and he arrives," Entreri said, his stony expression betraying a small smile.

"I have a knack for being in the right place at the right time, I suppose," Jarlaxle said with a laugh, chasing away his ridiculous state of unease. "Business has been fruitful, I hope."

Entreri gave a wicked smirk, continuing down the hallway with Drizzt and Jarlaxle close behind.

"Business has been a bountiful harvest," Drizzt said with a smile.

"That remains to be seen," Entreri said.

"Though I bring some fruit from a different labor," Jarlaxle said, doing another cursory glance around the hall.

Drizzt felt a thick, velvet bag pressed into the palm of his hand and stopped in his tracks. He looked down at the bag, then Jarlaxle's smile while seeing Entreri stop and look back.

"Our last employer has at last paid us our keep," Jarlaxle said.

Drizzt shot him a glare as Entreri walked back to the group.

"You had an audience with…" Entreri said

"Kimmuriel had an audience with him and passed along the message," Jarlaxle said. "Gromph would rather I was out of his hair at last. This came with specific instructions it must be divided equally among the three of us."

Drizzt went numb with the possibility, a vision reflecting reality once more. He carefully untied and opened the velvet bag an arm's reach away from his body, pulling it in after seeing no traps.

Inside was pure blackness, though the contents glinted brilliantly in the light of the torches that lined the hall.

Drizzt looked at Entreri and handed him the bag. The assassin did a careful look inside, pulling out one of the small, finely cut black diamonds and scrutinizing it before putting it back and retying the bag while staring at Jarlaxle.

"It is not the full chest he showed me, though it is sizable indeed," Jarlaxle said.

Drizzt's mouth curled into a smile and he let out a cackle, receiving a glare from Entreri as a response.

"It's fortunate we are close to a temple," Entreri said. "We can have this little gift examined now."

"Artemis, I personally believe Jarlaxle has nothing to gain by bringing us poisoned offerings," Drizzt said. "Neither does Gromph."

Entreri cocked an eyebrow, seeing Drizzt give a knowing smirk. He had no idea what Drizzt knew of Gromph's involvement in this if any, though Drizzt too had little reason to deceive any of them and was very well connected in his own right.

"Fine then," Entreri said, handing the bag back to Drizzt and continuing down the hallway.

-------

The heavy, late summer sun set through the high, arched windows of the guild's study.

Entreri stood for a second, leaning in the window and gazing out at the spires of Baldur's Gate bathed in the red glow of sunset.

His eyes examined every roof, every tower, gradually falling to one location that would never leave his mind.

Several other buildings crowded it, though the gold dome of Gond's High House of Wonders glowed brilliantly in the waning sunlight. Entreri could still see workers putting an extra coat of paint on the exterior while a few planted bulbs around the perimeter with metal contraptions that loaded the bulb into the ground and packed it with just one push of a lever.

It had been over a month since Moril's minion's reduced the temple to ruins; now it was nearly rebuilt thanks to the ingenuity of the Gondish builders. Word spread around the city a grand celebration would be had soon when the temple reopened with a collection of all new devices and creations.

Entreri looked forward to the event, actually; not necessarily in honor of Gond's church but to signify his own successful rebuilding. He too was wrecked the night the House of High Wonders exploded and he too was a new creation.

Entreri gave a proud smirk in spite of himself, twirling around and walking through the room. He entered the long, simply decorated hallway of red brick that was the Pilazi guildhouse; "was" being the key phrase.

The late summer days still bore strong warmth, yet he still felt comfortable in his favorite black cape made from a light, breathable material that also acted as a form of armor. He idly looked down at the white embroidery on his along the collar of his sleeveless, black tunic, one of the few items of personal vanity he had allowed himself in the past month; the change in his situation encouraging a slight change in wardrobe.

Maybe Jarlaxle had rubbed off on him more than he cared to admit, he thought with a small smirk followed by a gentle sigh.

It had been nearly a tenday after Bani Pilazi's death and already the guild was at a state of business as usual. Entreri would return to the guildhouse but few hours after Pilazi's death to find no challenges and no protests. Interestingly enough, the guild members regarded him as the guild leader soon after Pilazi's death while others went about their usual business not caring about him at all.

As he walked down the hall, a few minor thieves would cower from him with venomous sneers, which he would greet back with a polite smile. A passing minor mage/master con artist made no eye contact with him at all, found a different side of the black and gold carpet to walk on.

Entreri knew it was never entirely safe to travel so openly among this group, yet hiding in his quarters was never an option.

It was all just as he liked it. Taking the position of guild leader at last provided the rich taste of power; keeping a distance and not trying to impose his will over this fractured group kept him free.

Entreri turned the corner, dodging the large creeping rose bush in a black clay pot as he and peered through the open door of another small study.

Drizzt was sitting at his desk, slender feet planted on the fine wood as he went over some papers. Entreri was about to walk in and ask him about a rumor regarding the bookmakers skimming coin when the shrill voice of a halfling had him casually cling to the wall while watching the conversation.

"It's all about watching for opportunities," Regis said, looking at someone on the opposite side of the room. "All the gawkers have been watching Gond's temple rebuilt and have been easy targets. Yes the guards will be back out there for crowd control, though you can expect a profit. Mrs. Elderberry and I have worked them over for days."

Entreri shifted his body slightly to get a better view of Jarlaxle reclining on the plush, red couch on the other side of the room and paging through some sort of thin book while keeping half his attention on the halfling.

"Though when Gond's house reopens in a few days, you might get a brief spike in pickings though it will be down from there," Jarlaxle said, running a hand over his white hair, hat on top of the couch underneath…

Entreri swallowed hard, an odd sense of déjà vu creeping over him. He had been in this moment before. He sneered and shook his head; it was a ridiculous thought, though the sight of the hat underneath a pair of crossed swords that had been mounted on that wall by the last worker in that office still made his skin crawl.

"Do you have much knowledge of thievery on the Surface, sir," Regis said, "no offense meant of course."

"Of course," Jarlaxle said, waving a hand in dismissal. One of the pages of his book flopped down to reveal the detailed drawing of a naked woman. "And I will be honest with you; I have dabbled in many dealings, never really fond of staying in one place."

"The pickings in one city change by the season," Regis continued with a small air of conceit. "In Calimport you knew to stay in taverns when the Hammer winds hit and the brothels were ideal during Midsummer. In this city you know the docks will be perfect as all the merchants will be out there inspecting the boats they've invested in. The coin will flow like knucklehead during a Mirtul thaw."

"Though the knucklehead were never heavily warded," Drizzt said, looking up from his paperwork and giving Regis a polite smile.

"I'll take that over that damn sharp fin," Regis said, producing a chuckle from Drizzt.

"Well, you'll have your commission tomorrow once you've had another time to go out," Jarlaxle said. "Though nice work today; you are indeed a master at what you do, Regis."

Regis gave a small bow to Jarlaxle, then to Drizzt as he walked to the door; a wide smile was on his face the whole time. Here he was a goodly rogue surrounded by a sea of murderers and for some reason he couldn't have looked happier.

Entreri stepped back into the hall as if just passing Regis on the way to Drizzt's office. Regis gave him a sheepish glance, though nodded with a smile before walking down the hall. Entreri gave a stiff smile to his back as he walked into the office.

"So our grand guildmaster decides to grace us with his presence," Drizzt said, looking up from his paperwork.

"Try to look honored by that, Do'Urden," he replied, the words almost coming like they were supposed to be said.

He looked further into the room, seeing Jarlaxle's nose buried in his book and a tuft of white hair poking upwards. Entreri gave a lingering look, receiving a smile in return as Jarlaxle put his book down enough to reveal his face; a strong ebony hue when Entreri was so used to seeing pallor.

"Did your little friend have what I asked for," Entreri asked.

Drizzt reached from under the desk and produced a small, black bag before tossing it to the human.

Entreri caught the bag and felt the weight of the gems he had been waiting for.

"Impressive," he said in a sarcastic tone. "Though I hope you checked to make sure no stones were missing.

"Hey, he collects, you collect," Drizzt said. "There's a pretty sizable haul in there too, proving he's not useless."

Entreri jiggled the bag in his hand, testing the weight, before nodding.

"Any regrets yet for inviting him along," Entreri said, putting the sack on the desk as he leaned against the fine wood. "I have to say I was a bit surprised to hear you even sent him any correspondence."

"He has a talent and no proper place to use it until now," Drizzt said, his tone considerably lighter then all the other times he ever spoke of Regis.

Drizzt had to keep telling himself that constantly. It wasn't as if he wanted to keep Regis around; giving himself a second chance at burying the past was his main motivation.

"We are surrounded by able rogues," Jarlaxle said, putting his book down and coming to a sit. One arm stretched across the top of the couch, grabbing his hat and plopping it on his head before returning to its original position. "Able rogues under our employ."

"If they are our rogue servants, does that make us their…" Drizzt said, his voice trailing off with a smile as he looked at Entreri.

Entreri groaned with an annoyed grimace. His gaze fell on Drizzt Do'Urden sitting at a wide desk, short white hair in a wild series of spikes yet his lavender eyes actually focused with clarity and not perpetual rage.

He gave a glance again to Jarlaxle…Jarlaxle Baenre, his long time companion he cursed, bantered with, and almost lost. He had hair now and hadn't worn that eye patch in a long time, though scheming mischief was ever in that smile.

Entreri had to look at himself as well, a man returned from the dead with a new inspiration for his craft.

What a bizarre team these three made.

"Their Rogue Kings?" Entreri said, his grimace turning to a smirk as he crossed his arms. "Why not?"

THE END

Author's Note: And so ends a story that has been two and a half years in the making.

The first chapter was posted on September 2, 2005, a few days after the end of my story "Midsummer" while I was chomping at the bit to finally start a sequel to my first fic "The Lesser Evil." This story has gone in directions I never imagined and I certainly never imagined it would be this long. However, this story was in progress during some of the biggest changes in my life; getting a huge new job, a new relationship and nasty break-up, the death of a family member, a friend's illness, so many other things going on that makes this story a snapshot in history for me. This story as received both a strong following and some of the most negative comments I have ever gotten on my writing. I regret nothing. Everything here had a purpose and I adored the opportunity to play with the personalities and possibilities of established characters while giving me the first major opportunity in too long a time for me to write original characters. This has represented writing evolution for me; I have honed my skills and learned what to do and not to do in a story. I feel I can only go forward from here.

The title of the story itself is based on the song "Hooligan's Holiday" by Motley Crue. I began this story with inspiration from Marilyn Manson's "Golden Age of Grotesque" album as I had for "Lesser Evil," though Disturbed's "Ten Thousand Fists" was pretty much the soundtrack of this story. Other sources of inspiration came from all over the place, from old sci-fi movies to gaming sessions to whatever popped up in the last two years.

This isn't the end of The Rogue Kings, though I cannot guarantee when I will pick up this storyline again. I have a never say never view on inspiration, so who knows.

Infinite thanks to all of you who have followed this story from the beginning, you guys are my rock. Huge thanks of course to anyone who has read and reviewed this story with constructive criticism on and Lavender Eyes, or anywhere else anyone has commented.

My plumed hat is in hand as I give a grand bow. Thank you and good night.


End file.
